Two Plus Two Makes Five
by Autobot Chromia
Summary: 'Freedom is the freedom to say two plus two makes four. If that is granted, all else follows.' - George Orwell '1984' Captain Kirk, after electrocution and amnesia, started a family in his own version of Utopia. Spock, somehow materializing in an entirely different universe, has managed to land in a total Dystopia. Loosely based off of George Orwell's 1984.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

_'Freedom is the freedom to say two plus two makes four. Once that is granted, all else follows.' -Winston Smith (Geroge Orwell _1984_)_

* * *

Hands flew, buttons beeped, the transporter pad warbled as Mr. Montgomery Scott tried to piece together the drifting atoms of what once had been a living being. His heart raced in his chest, adrenaline adding speed as well as clumsiness to his fingers as they danced across the touch-screen and keyed the buttons. It was like tickling a keyboard - a piano forte that meant the life or death of another.

He scarcely breathed as the door slid open, not even looking up as a blur of dingy yellow popped up in his peripheral vision before sweeping away. He didn't even care to think about who it might be, too engrossed in his task of saving a soul.

A soul that would mean blood on his hands if he lost it.

He jabbed a button with never lost, but added vigor, a prayer ghosting his lips as he moved on instinct alone and all the rest of the world was silent in his ears. All that existed was him, the console before him, and the transported pad of displaced atoms.

* * *

Mr. Spock stepped onto the silver panel of the transporter pad, back straight and tricorder slung over his shoulder and carefully hung by his waist. A phaser glimmered on his utility belt, free of dust and grime and finger prints. His black shoes were polished to perfection, his equally black pants without tear, and his science blues unstained by chemicals used in the lab. His sharp brown eyes were without fear as he faced the console. Why should he fear? Besides the fact that he was Vulcan and showed none to begin with, transporting down to an M-charted planet was as natural to him as breathing was to the next sentient being with a pair of lungs.

He adjusted the tricorder, the ninety-degree angle it had once hung at slipping to a unacceptable ninety-two. His hair capped his head like an ancient LEGO action-figure headpiece - an analogy a certain immature captain had pointed out over a hasty lunch days ago.

His eyes locked with the milk-chocolate brown of the Head Engineer's. "Engage." he ordered without a qualm.

Mr. Scott's fingers moved like individuals in a ballet, each performing their own segment yet working together for the final effect. They slipped over the control screen, turning it to just the right frequency to beam the Chief Science Officer down to the uninhabited planet below for some readings on the flora and geology.

Like normal, the fizzing yellow glow like a carbonated soda bubbled the molecules of the half-human, half-Vulcan apart to reconstruct them on firm ground below. Mr. Scott had always loved the theory and action of a transporter, frequently studying the latest upgrades and tinkering to bring the _Enterprise's_ transporters up-to-date with the latest techno-fad.

So, when a little red button began to flash he knew exactly what it meant. Trouble with a capital 'T'.

"What the devil?" he hissed to himself, all but throwing himself over the boxy computer in his haste to find the root of the problem.

The root of the problem was as obvious as the weed it stemmed from. Mr. Spock's atoms, the very same ones that had been taken apart with such ease, were not reconnecting down below on the planet. Odd, as the last three science teams and countless trips of equipment had beamed down just fine.

Sometime between beam down and a quick shout through the comm. system for engineering backup, his ears registered the sound of the door sliding open while his brain did not. Another pair of hands joined his, a third body hovering off to the right as Scotty and the random, nameless workman hurried to try to get the particles back into a humanoid shape.

The door slid open, the same science blues that had been torn apart filing in. Scrubs waited by the door, by the transporter pad, by the golden shirt still looming to the right. The particles waved back and forth on the screen beneath Scotty's clever digits, but not clever enough to put together the human/Vulcan puzzle.

And, as quickly as it had started, the red light switched off and blinked no more. The hands besides his stilled as Scotty tried one more time to pull together just enough cells for the medical team to treat. The light never blinked and the atoms never returned.

The captain beside him tensed as his hands stilled once and for all, fists curling in mirror of his own.

"I-I'm sorry, sair." Scotty said without even turning to face his captain. "We've lost him."

* * *

He was swimming, forever swimming with the ease of a fish. He swam up, arms and legs kicking in synch with one another as he propelled himself through the murky darkness. It all seemed natural, somehow, and at the same time, unnatural. He hated water, so why did he enjoy swimming? He felt as light as one in a spacewalk, moving gracefully through the spances of forever.

Suddenly, light pierced his perfect tranquility, his naturally artificial, soakingly unwet water world. It engulfed him like a solar flare, or perhaps simply like a search light. A hand-held torch switching on in a game of flashlight tag.

_"Com'mon, Spock. Scotty says that the lights'll be working again in an hour. Lets make the most of it."_

_"But, Captain-"_

_"You're it!"_

The light hurt his eyes, the little used, appendix-like second eyelid fluttering as it threatened to close like a black-out curtain.

_"You're it!"_

_"But,-"_

Colors joined the light, the entire rainbow spectrum blinding him with sight. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet overtook the colorless darkness he had been floating in peaceably. Pink, hunters, lemon, kelly, robins egg, and purple joined in. Nameless shapes of impossible sides jumped into the crowded pool of his mind - as that was all this could be. It could only be his head making all of this up, a wonderful nightmare holding him prey and cradling him with a lullaby tune lulling him to death.

"-Captain." he finished with a gasp, starting forward as the hallucinogenic onslaught snapped away like a light being thrown. His mother had entered the room, hearing his cries of a Vulcan dream gone wrong, and chased the monsters away with her magic light of reality.

"Easy." a voice spoke - not his mother's, masculine - above his head and soft. "Sir, are you all right?"

He didn't answer, to focused on breathing. He had been swimming just fine, but he had never said he had been breathing. Only now he realized his lungs burned for air, his brain and blood craving the oxygen that swarmed about unnoticed and unappreciated in the atmosphere. What tiny molecules of oxygen, what little atoms that filled his lungs to bursting and made his head spin and his vision spot.

"Whoa." the voice exclaimed, something strong and almost painful clamping on his arm to keep him from falling over. The black spots began to clear, making room for a steady pound in his temples, to reveal a pair of electric blue eyeballs staring back. "Are you really with me this time?"

He nodded, stopping instantly as a quiet groan worked its way from his lips and his hand reached to touch the back of his head. It felt as if he had been slapped in the rear skull with a metal shovel. Repeatedly. "What happened?"

"Beats me." the stranger snorted, smiling pleasantly as he looped a strong yet pale arm under the sleeve of his science blues. "I swear you just came outta nowhere. 'Course, I was just walking by and probably just missed you fall. Can you tell me your name, son?"

Only now did he realize how much older this man was compared to him. The sandy blonde, blue-eyed man had to be in his late fortys compared to his own young age of twenty-five. "It's..." he paused for a moment, trying to recall his own name. "Spock."

The main lifted a thin eyebrow. "Spock?" he chuckled lightly. "Sorry." he apologized quickly as Spock turned to look at him. "Just, that's one name you don't hear a lot of... or at all. My name's George."

Spock gave a single nod, still trying to clear his head. How did he get here? What was he doing before he fell and hit his head? In fact- "Where are we?"

"Whoa." George whistled. "You must'f hit your head pretty hard. You can't remember?"

"I-I think..." Spock thought, shaking his head a moment later. "I wasn't here. I know I wasn't. Captain Kirk ordered me to-"

"Kirk?" the middle-aged stranger asked, his ears perking up at the familiar name. "Small world, that's my last name."

It was Spock's turn to perk up. "_You_ are George Kirk?"

"The one and only." the man practically beamed. "Well," he shrugged, "as far as I know. There's probably some other George Kirk in Ukay and I just haven't met him yet."

"UK." Spock tried the unfamiliar word over his tongue, the ever present pounding in the back of his head increasing the harder he tried to place it. "As in Great Britain of the Planet Earth?"

"Oh, man." George Kirk groaned. "You really got clobbered. No." he shook his head. "You're in District Ukay of the country Earth of the planet Gritain. The bonk must have scrambled your facts all up."

"Must have." Spock replied quietly, eyes skimming over the terrain.

He appeared to be in the middle of a large city, his body still seated on a hot cement sidewalk. Tall buildings rose every which way, like sunflowers stretching towards the sun and reaching their pointed tops to the burning ball of fire above. The sky was clear, as far as Spock could tell, and cloudless. It was nearly impossible to tell from the amount of smog coating the buildings from the middle upward. Closer to the ground and standing distance everything was clear and bright and breathable, a false front of beauty just below the dust of pollution. For the life of him, Spock could not find an obvious source of the dirty air hanging overhead. There were no cars or motorbikes, no hovercraft or buses, nor any kind of transportation available other than your own two legs. The streets and sidewalks were all uncrowded, barring a straggler spotted here and there and Spock and George Kirk.

"I was on my way to work." George cursed as he glanced towards his watch. "Break ends at fifeteen-thirty, and I'm late."

The time was as foreign as the names before. "I apologize, it was not my intentions to cause trouble."

But as quickly as George had become angry, he brushed him off. "Nah, don't worry. What's a comrade for? I should probably get you to a hospital or at least home, you're covered in bruises." The man motioned towards the green and brown splotches beginning to form over Spock's body. He snapped his fingers, "Hey, maybe you were beat up by some no'ets. They've been getting awfully violent lately."

"I can't remember." Spock admitted as if it were the greatest sin of all. "One moment I was with my captain, and the next I was waking up here."

"That sounds like an ambush if I ever heard one." George stated decisively, grabbing hold of Spock's wrists to heft him up. "They corner ya in a dark alley, gas ya with some kind of chemical that knocks you out and wipes your memory of them, and rob you 'til there's nothing left but your clothes. It's all over the holo-vision and newspapers."

How very odd. Both high-tech equipment like a holographic television, yet these people still used newspapers instead of a convenient PADD. Perhaps his original assumptions of being on Earth were mistaken. Perhaps this George Kirk was only named so due to coincidence and this was an entirely different planet far away from Sol and the Milky Way System.

It suddenly occurred to Spock that, wherever he was, he was walking across it and George Kirk was still rambling on like an old friend.

"-can't belive something like this happened to you. You seem like a good, loyal member of the Fleet. Fleet looks out for Fleet, at least, that's what I've always been told. And Fleet's never wrong."

His heavy, booted feet came to a halt, George quickly stopping beside him and turning towards him. "Is something wrong? Are you dizzy or-"

"'Fleet?" Spock asked quickly. "As in _Star_fleet? This is a Federation planet?"

The quizzical, confused, and pitying look George Kirk supplied him with more than answered Spock's question. "There you go with the mixed up words again. I've never seen a Vulcan so disoriented before - you're sure you're okay?"

_No._ Spock's mind whirled. Question after question, inquiry followed by inquiry, spun through his mind and each one without answer.

Like, how did the non-Federation planet know about Vulcan and Vulcans?

How was this 'George Kirk' so indifferent to the fact he was helping an alien?

How long had there been an alliance between Vulcan and a non-Federation planet?

Did his father know of this?

Was this George Kirk related to James T. in any way?

Was Spock disrupting the timeline, breaking the rules and laws of time-travel with his mere presence and disturbance?

How had he really gotten here? Had he really been beat up by these 'no'ets'? Maybe even, had he always been part of this system and a clobbering really erased his memory? Had he hallucinated his captain and ship and space in that time he was floating through the blackness?

A hand touched his shoulder, strong pulses of concern mentally smacking him from his stupor. Spock barely had time to smother out his gasp before it left his mouth.

"Easy." George calmed him again, voice low and smooth. "I really should be getting you home. Can you tell me where you live?"

"I-" Spock paused, glancing about the cement world surrounding him. The buildings all looked alike, tall and uniform and uninviting. Each street looked the same, empty and uncharitable. Even the street-name markers would have all been alike had it not been for the different names ranging from 'Main' and 'Cherry Ave.' to 'First' and 'Second. But, even the names could have been all the same in Spock's mind. Not one stood out to him, not a solitary one seemed familiar.

That strong hand seemed to have never left his shoulder, becoming very warm near his upper back. "Come on." George said. "I'll take you to the hospital and this'll all be straightened out."

Numbly, Spock nodded. As the gentle had led him one way, his heart pulled him another. It pulled him towards that captain in his dream, fact or fictional, he didn't care. He wanted to return to those stars and that silver lady he knew was up there somewhere.

_My captain will come for me. _his conscious spoke firmly, and Spock knew it to be true. _He always comes. _

* * *

The unconnected thimble hummed by his ears, his fine-tuned eardrum picking up even the high-pitched squeal gone unnoticed by humans. The certain squeal of an older version of medical tricorders, and especially loud, as this one was, before it was about to go dead.

The doctor hummed, his coffee colored skin and black, curly yet cropped hair highlighted by the overhead lights of a hospital sickbay. It was not unlike any other sickbay Spock had ever been in, other than the fact it mixed both modern and barbaric methods of medicine into one big heap of medicinal tools.

Spock looked over the older model tricorder as it was set aside, it's chunky box two point one six inches thicker than the one he had. Had was the correct term, as his tricorder and phaser had been taken from him on admittance. The doctor's tricorder was set next to a hypodermic needle, not a hypospray, a needle that needed filling from a little bottle covered in tinfoil and was pressed by a plunger to inject the contents into the bloodstream. A laser scalpel clattered in a drawer the doctor hastily threw open against a large cone-headed drill used by Earthen Medieval Ages to drill the bad humors out of one's brain.

He suppressed a shudder at the rust-stained yet clean drill. How barbaric. Why did these people use unconventional and simply illogical means when highly advanced, logical, technological devices were at their feet?

It was obvious these were not disciples in search of 'Eden' as they did not shun all technology. They were nothing like the One, they simply combined lasers and photons with leaden bullets and gunpowder.

_Bearskins and stone knives,_ Mr. Spock was loathe to think.

His attention was turned away from inward musings as the doctor hummed. "Well, now. Looks like your friend here was right about everything. Your bloodstream shows traces of the drugs used by the no'ets during one of their assaults. Your bruises are in shape of closed fists, and neural pathways in your brain have been destroyed. And," the doctor continued as if it was as natural as setting up a bone regenerator, or plaster cast, Mr. Spock was unsure what was used here, "your memories with them."

"That does not seem entirely truthful." Spock spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "The only memories I am currently missing pertain just moments before the 'no'ets' attacked me and waking up."

"And where you live." George spoke up from behind the doctor, having offered to stay during the check-up and refusing to take no as an answer.

Reluctantly, Spock gave a light nod of the head. "But, all in all, nothing too terrible or necessary." _Especially as I never originated from here to begin with._

"I will still need to ask you a few questions, relatively easy to test how much, if anything, more you cannot remember." the doctor stated, rummaging about for a clipboard. For such an immaculately clean hospital, it seemed dangerously unorganized.

"Very well." Spock agreed with an incline of his head.

The doctor glanced towards his clipboard, fingering a grubby pencil stub connected to it. "Lets begin with, who are we currently at war with? Simple enough, that."

George Kirk seemed to agree, nodding with the answer in his head as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. It was a very Kirkian position, Spock had seen it often from his captain.

The doctor might have known the answer, Mr. Kirk might have known the answer, the whole damned planet could know the answer. In Mr. Spock's mind, there was none.

"There is a war?" he asked almost stupidly, curiosity just barely lacing his voice.

A pair of electric blue, and the doctor's own dull green, eyes widened in shock. George pushed himself away from the wall, the doctor setting aside his clipboard and fuzzy eyebrows knitting together.

"Yes." the doctor said gravely. "We've always been at way - since the beginning of time we have been at war with Andorica. And," he added just as sternly, "allies with Vulcan."

Spock paused, wetting his lips and reminding himself of something Captain Kirk had once told him. Dr. McCoy had been insatiably nitpicky that morn, criticizing Spock's every word, action, and _breath._ Spock, in turn, had started to argue back. Entirely in self-defence, but if he was called a 'pointy-eared bastard' one more time, he was going to seriously consider inventing the Vulcan Death Grip.

_Captain Kirk leaned over his water-glass, his half-eaten dinner of a turkey sandwich, salad, and a piece of blackberry cobbler momentarily forgotten to act as mediator between First Officer and Chief Medical Officer._

_"Pick your battles, Spock." Jim said not unkindly in a lowered voice, just low enough for Spock and hopefully not the doctor sitting on the opposite side of the captain and a few scootches away to hear._

_A thin, black eyebrow lifted. "But, Captain, I merely-"_

_"Just play nice, please?" Jim asked, green eyes pleading. "I'll explain later, just promis-"_

_"Like hell, you will!" an explosion burst from the other side of the table. "My business is my business, and you damn well get that right through your skull righ' now, Jim."_

_Jim lifted his hands in the universal sign of surrender, a spork dangling between his fingers as he raised his arms slightly. "Fine, fine, I got it." McCoy turned away, giving Jim just enough time to wink at Spock before returning to his salad._

_Spock split his attention between the PADD he was proof-reading and a small yet deep bowl of plomeek broth, overly salty and lacking the tang fresh plomeek had compared to the flavoring added to water 'Fleet called soup. He noticed quietly as McCoy picked listless at his plate of a Southern smorgasboard - fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, hot buttered corn, a biscuit, and a glass of iced tea to wash it down with. It was all in moderate portions, and each one barely tasted. The only item relatively touched was the iced tea, the amber shade becoming more and more watery and light as the ice melted._

_Five minutes later, the doctor's tray was pushed away. Perhaps a bite was taken out of the potatoes, the gravy running down its side and pooling in the corner of its dish. Maybe a few kernels of corn had been nibbled on, and no more than a bit of breading from one piece of chicken had been eaten. The only food item nearly entirely eaten had been the biscuit, and even some of that remained still on the tray._

_The doctor left without a word, leaving the tray behind him as he all but fled the mess hall. Kirk sighed, laying aside his half-spoon, half-fork issued for 'convenience' onboard Starfleet vessels._

_"I suppose," Jim started, tearing Spock away from his PADD, "I should offer you that explanation now."_

_"That would be appreciated." Spock retorted. "But perhaps not by the doctor himself."_

_"His niece died last night." Jim replied quickly, as if merely mentioning the fact might bring the wrath of Dr. McCoy upon himself. "She's been battling cancer for some time now... one of those damned types doctors even now can't find a cure for." He breathed heavily. "She was only nine, and it seems McCoy was rather... close to her. He got the notice this morning. Spock," Jim continued, "he hasn't been picking on you all day simply because he's a jerk, he doesn't know how to cope right now. He's angry and you're just... there, I guess."_

_Spock had only given a half-hearted nod, finished his lunch, and made sure to bear McCoy's verbal abuse with all the patience of a true Vulcan._

There was no point in trying to correct these humanoid figures that 'Andorica' was not the proper name for the planet Andorians originated from. There was no logic in arguing that Vulcan could not be allied with a non-Federation planet. It was time to choose his battles and think his predicaments through.

One thing stuck out most to him, more than any other question in his mind at that moment. "Always?" he repeated the doctor's words from just moments ago. "You- _we_ have always been at war? No times of peace or truce?"

"War is peace." the doctor stated firmly. He spoke as if reading straight from a history book - both allies and axis powers, diagnoses, it sounded the same as Mr. Scott reading the instruction manual of the latest piece of equipment. In fact, Spock humored the thought, Mr. Scott put more emotion in the manuals. "And peace is war. It has always been so and always will be."

"So say the Fleet." George Kirk murmured from behind the doctor, like one finishing the quote. The man sighed heavily. "Doc, if those no'ets screwed him up this bad, will he need to go through an entire relearning process?"

"Most definitely." the doctor replied nonchalantly. "He will be given the necessary books to read to remember what he was forgotten about our history, and his records will be pulled up to discover where he lives and works. If you'd excuse me."

The final was perhaps the most polite thing the doctor had said his entire time diagnosing, and made his exit. Spock waited only a moment after the door closed to reach across for the doctor's abandoned tricorder, switching it on.

George stepped forward, halting as if suddenly gripped from behind. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "Only the doctors can use those. They're specifically engineered to only respond to the touch of a-"

_Do-do-do!_ a melodic start-up chimed as the black screen whitened and darkened once more to the selection menu. It was an old, crude tricorder barely an upgrade above the first medical scanners ever made. He skimmed through his options, looking for one in particular.

"Maybe you're a doctor." George stated after a moment of watching the odd Vulcan fiddle with the device. "That's the only explanation for being able to handle _that_."

"I am a scientist." Spock corrected, eyes never leaving the screen. "Of that I am certain."

"Science?" George parrotted, a little child hearing a new word for the first time. He shook his head, leaning against the headboard of the hospital gurney and casting a wary eye over the device Spock continued to fiddle with. "You sure use some strange words. You're either a doctor or a soldier, since you carried a weapon. Weapons are illegal except for members of the Control."

Spock hummed, only half listening, as his eyebrows furrowed. He had found the segment he was looking for, a recall section that brought back the previous readings of whatever was scanned. Having worked with tricorders of every kind, style, and generation, Spock knew that this particular model could hold up to eight recalls before needing a computer download to firmly save them. To his surprise, he found not a single saved reading. The doctor couldn't have deleted it, this model was so crude it needed to be connected to delete or save to a better hard drive.

He powered down the device, setting it aside. Something didn't ring true with this here planet. Not the districts nor cities nor countries, not the people nor places nor things, not the lack of transportation or the abundance of smog - not anything. And, being insatiably curious, a _scientist's curiosity_, he was going to get to the bottom of this mystery. Even if it killed him.

Spock hoped, for his own sake, it wouldn't come to that.

* * *

Author's Note - Would any one else like to yell at me? Here I am, starting yet ANOTHER story when I shouldn't be, and in an entirely different fandom. *collective gasps*

I had the idea for this after reading George Orwell's _1984_, an intensively good read and I encourage each and every one of you to go out and read it this very minute. Especially all my fellow Americans - read it and reflect.

To those of you who have never read it, _1984_ is a story written by a man in a communist country in the 1940's (Geroge Orwell also wrote _Animal Farm_, a good read but not as spellbinding as _1984_). He wrote about a negative utopia, a nation ruled by 'one' yet many and indoctrination was life.

_Two Plus Two Makes Five_ is taken right from he book, and many other quotes will be used to head each chapter and make grand appearances in the chapters as well. (I will not plagiarise, I do not own Star Trek nor George Orwell.)

This is also an alternate Universe (Jim Kirk was taken to Mirrorverse, Spock was sent to this dystopia) There will be no OC's, and for those of you who ever read _1984_, there will be no romance between Spock and any character from the dystopia-verse. (No Julia for Spock!)

Updates should be regular - every two weeks or so. If you read any of my other stories - Elementary (Transformers) or the new Data-Pad (Transformers), each one will fill up one week.

(etc. Week one- Elem., Week two - Data, Week three - Two Plus, Week one- Elem., etc. etc. ad nauseum)

Self-beta'd, all mistakes me own. 

Please enjoy and review.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

_'WAR IS PEACE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.' - George Orwell _1984_._

* * *

Spock didn't exist. At least, not on this planet and not in this world. One 'Mr. Spock' had never been born, and there were no Vulcan's with that name missing within the District of Ukay of the county Earth.

"Perhaps you should refer to the Vulcanian data-bases." the non-existent Mr. Spock suggested to the doctor.

Two quizzical looks were given him, one masked with medical interest and the other pity. George leaned towards him, whispering quietly as if Spock should be embarrassed. "Maybe there is a 'Spock' missing in Vulcan, but not in Ukay. No one is ever allowed out or in, other than prisoners being captured or traded. You were born here, that's why you live here, and you'll die here like anyone else in their Districts do."

Not a very pleasant thought to entertain. "I could not have taken a shuttlecraft to get here from the planet Vulcan?"

"District." George corrected again, with all the patience of a natural-born schoolteacher or parent. "The District Vulcan. I've never heard of a 'planet Vulcan', but the District is just across the border. We're not allowed in there, though. And Vulcans can't come over here."

"I had come to belive we were allies with the... District Vulcan." Spock stated.

"We are." the doctor interjected. "We trade goods and supply weapons and send currency when disaster hits, and they do the same for us when it's our turn. We don't have to be physically in one another's Districts to lend a hand."

Interesting. Border crossings were not allowed in any way. Perhaps permission needed to be gotten from the government system - Communism in layman's terms. Spock filed that away for later reflexion. "I see." he said, as much like one remembering something as he could. "But if I'm Vulcan, how can I be here? If intermingling between districts is not allowed, should I not be on the other side of the border?"

"You just look like one." George shrugged. "Maybe one of your ancestors descended from Vulcan."

Possibly, by this planet's standards, but not very likely, even by this planet's standards. How could he look like a Vulcan, be a descendant of this District Vulcan, if Vulcans and Ukays were not allowed to mix and mingle and copulate? There was a major flaw in this logic somewhere, Spock just needed time to find it.

"Hmm..." the doctor hummed from his computer console, a large chunky box with connected mouse attached. "There are no 'Mr. Spock's missing, but a Vulcan by the name of 'Selik' went missing the other day. He has not been heard from since his leaving home to his work at the Cube of Distribution."

"Does any of that sound familiar?" George Kirk asked hopefully.

It did indeed. The name, at least. Spock had a cousin - or perhaps it was an uncle? - named Selik that he had met once just before his _khas-wan_ as a child. The Cube of Distribution, however...

"I believe so." Spock feigned ignorance and hesitance. "But, I'm uncertain..."

"That's all right." George said comfortingly. "I'm sure it'll all come to you as soon as you're settled in and back on a schedule."

"Perhaps." Spock agreed quietly. He hoped (how very human of him) that wherever this 'Selik' was that he was all right and wouldn't mind Spock's borrowing his identity. It was for a good cause: his own. "Where did I live?"

The doctor hummed a moment, index finger stroking the mouse to pull down the screen, skimming its contents. "Scenic Ave., the big apartment complex right off Main. You lived in apartment 221, unmarried and no children." the doctor finished reading.

Spock nearly blew a sigh of relief. Thank heavens there was no wife making the scenario more complex than it already was. It was actually quite pleasant, taking on another person's identity. His life was already laid out for him - family and friends, work and home - all he needed to do was to make it look like he belonged.

"What a coincidence!" George was smiling broadly. "I live in that complex. About six floors up, but still the same building. Scenic?" he asked the doctor again, receiving a nod in turn. "Yep, same place, then. Too bad you work in Distrib. instead of Lit., like me."

"Literature?" Spock blanked. If only the translation communicator implanted near his ears in his skull could also interpret human slang and abbreviated lingo.

"Cube of Literature." George nodded, not even realizing Spock didn't have a clue what he was talking about. "We deal with the newspapers and cartoons and holo-vision, education and books and poetry - pretty much anything you read and see. History especially, majoring in the past."

_What else would history pertain to?_ Spock asked himself. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself as a character in a book his mother had once read to him when he was but 'knee-high to a grasshopper', as Dr. McCoy might put it. Where logic was illogical, the nonsensical made sense, and white rabbits were tardy to their tea parties. He felt very much how he had imagined Alice feeling when he was a child. Confused and wary - never scared - but uncertain as to what step he should take next. Any step might be entirely wrong, or it could be perfectly right. There was no happy medium, no base control to test on, and no logic. Simply instinct and - dare he say it? - _emotions _to guide him home.

He opened his eyes to see the doctor frowning and George Kirk looking rather worried. "You okay?" the latter asked, his blue eyes searching the frame of his new-found friend.

"Yes," Spock answered with a small bob, quickly reaching up to rub his temple with two fingers. "Merely a headache."

"And rightfully so." the dark-skinned doctor added. "Those drugs will start doing a number on your anatomy." The doctor turned, rummaging in his drawer for a thin needle still in its cellophane and hospital-blue paper wrapping, and a small bottle with a tin-foil cap. "Just hold still a minute, and..."

It was entirely instinctual, totally involuntary, to pull back his arm as it was motioned for by the doctor. "Would not a pill be easier?"

"A pill?" the doctor cantered his helm, thumb on the needle's plunger and rubbing it almost eagerly. "With your ears?"

Uncertain if it was an honest concern or simply a speciest comment, Spock blinked and gave up his arm for the lengthy needle. He'd only felt the stab of a needle a few times, mainly when an intravenous line was needed, but never like this. A cold alcohol wipe was swiped over the flesh of his upper arm, sleeve pushed down as the shirt had long-armed sleeves. The doctor's fingers, warm compared to the wipe, gripped his skin and the needle quickly thrust into the space between the dark thumb and index finger. Spock nearly flinched, a hypospray both as crude yet gentler than this type of shot. The clear liquid flowed into his green bloodstream, more frigid than both the doctor's hands and the alcohol wipe.

"There." the doctor said, tossing the needle into an orange hazard box and the wipe and bottle into the garbage can. "If there are no other problems you're free to go. Your memory should start returning within the week, and if it hasn't, come back."

Besides the shot and odd tricorder 'readings', this had to be one of the least invasive medical examinations Spock had ever been through. Perhaps because there was nothing really wrong with him, Jim was right around a bend in space and about to transport him back to the _Enterprise _within a moment's notice, but much gentler than anything Dr. McCoy would have put him through.

Of course, Dr. McCoy was a real physician compared to whatever this 'doctor' was, but Spock wasn't going to complain when stupidity worked with him rather than against.

He thanked the 'good' doctor, pushing his sleeve back up to its correct place. With George offering to show him the way to the apartment complex, there wasn't much that could go wrong.

* * *

Of course, it might just have been Spock, or 'Selik', that was wrong. He had stopped at the discharge counter at the hospital to ask for the devices that had been taken from him: his phaser and communicator and tricorder. The woman at the desk just looked at him oddly, shaking her head and claiming no such devices had been taken in.

And then there was the building to the apartment complex. It was big, bigger than Spock had originally imagined, and much dirtier than he had pictured. There was no graffiti, merely dirt and dust and smogged windows. The long trek up the stairs - for such a civilized, barbaric place elevators seemed to be out of the question - had been just as disappointing as the building. Dirt and candy wrappers and insect legs were tucked deep into the crevices of each step, sticky residue from sweaty hands coated the railing, and smudges of paint and slime marred the walls with who knew what. Spock would have been able to tell had he his _tricorder_ with him.

"Welp." George announced after strolling along yet another hall, looking for the illusive apartment Selik supposedly inhabited. "This here looks like your room. 221."

A very human disappointment fluttered through Spock's side at the missing letter 'B' he had hoped would be hanging besides those numbers. Of all the coincidences that had happened, it appeared that the one hoped for would remain ungranted.

Spock tried the door, surprised to find it open. Checking again, no lock or keyhole or even a magnetic lock was used to keep the door closed. Only the knobby handle that stuck and needed jiggling to crack it open.

Everything wanted to disappoint him that day - whatever accident had brought him here, the _Alice in Wonderland_ logic this place ruled themselves by, the doctor, the tricorder, the stealing of his belongings, incompetence, dirt, smog, and now the home in which Selik used to reside in.

Three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen/living room. As a single chair and sink and refrigerator unit acted as the entire living room and kitchen, a cupboard beneath the sink and a large television droning nonsense before the chair. The bathroom was at least semi-clean, any true Vulcan would always remain as tidy as possible even in the most deplorable of conditions. That trait continued on into the bedroom, a closet of clothing consisting of some civilian clothing and an ugly orange jumpsuit Spock could only assume was for work. The bed was neatly made and a window covered by a black-out curtain barely let in enough light to show the state of the items.

George lifted a thin, blonde eyebrow as the new Selik looked over the wall. "What're ya looking for?"

"A light switch." Spock returned, turning back to his company. "There doesn't seem to be one within this room."

"That's because no bedroom has lights." George replied as if it were as plain as the ears on Spock's head. "What do ya need lights for in a bedroom? They're just for sleeping at night, and you don't need a light then. The sun does just fine for changing clothes in the morning."

Spock wasn't entirely sure about that last statement, as he pulled back the black-out curtains. They were well above the clear streets below and smack in the middle of the smog cloud. He loathed the day he ever needed to open the window for anything, and hoped Jim would come for him long before that need ever arose.

Even through the hazy, brown light streaming into the room, highlighting the heavy dust making the air seem thick, the bedroom didn't seem to be in that bad a condition and the clothing looked right about his size. He was thankful that Vulcanian was a dominant gene and he had inherited his father's normal Vulcan height instead of a human's varying degrees of tallness.

"I'm room Five-sixty-seven." George spoke up from his spot in the doorway, letting Spock close the closet before continuing. "If you'd like, I can show you were the Cube of Distribution is tomorrow. It's on the way to the Lit. Cube."

"That would be very much appreciated." Spock agreed with an incline of the head. "At what time?"

"Your papers say you're supposed to start at Nine-fifteen, so does eight-forty sound good to you?"

Spock agreed once more. And, in typical human courtesy said, "I thank you for your assistance these last few hours."

George shrugged good-naturedly, smiling his Kirkian smile. "What's a comrade for, Spock? Oh, I mean-" He cut himself off with a chuckle. "Selik. You know, it might be your real name, but Spock just seems to suit you better."

"I quite agree." Spock answered, eyeing the single book and manilla envelope of papers he had been sent home with from the hospital trip. He'd view them in full when he was alone. "If you'd prefer, you may call me Spock when we are alone."

"Neat." George beamed. "Like a nickname. Sure, I'll do that." The tall, robust man headed towards the door, stopping once and quickly turning around. "Just to remind you, curfew's at twenty-three-thirty. Light's turn off five minutes after that."

The District of Ukay sounded more and more inhospitable the more he learned. Instead, Spock simply thanked the man again and waited until the door had slammed shut, extra hard as it seemed to stick both ways, and pounced on his reading material.

He started with his own medical reports, his discharge papers and the printed information the doctor had sent through a large printing machine of his personal life. His name and age, _S'chn T'gai Selik cha' Skon_ and aged twenty-eight; his past and present status, unmarried, unbonded, controlled (it was a few days before Spock realised what that meant); and even his habits and schedules, including the places he was supposed to frequent, what times he went to and from work, and how many hours he put in at the local Fleet Center and community service - which were one in the same.

The paperwork, while interesting to learn about whose identity he had stolen, was rather mundane and unimportant compared to the surprisingly thin book he was to relearn from. He cracked the spine, the book old and dusty yet rather unused. Its past readers seemed to have cared little for the next reader in line, marking and doodling in the corners of the book and dog-earing the corners. One page, Spock found to his dismay, was stuck together by this sticky brown crust and tore away a few words when he tried to pry them apart. Logic filled in the blanks for him, and the more he read the more he wished he hadn't.

The Fleet controlled everything. Goods and the distribution of them, travel and communication, the buying and trading of items, money and how it was spent, anything anyone could ever read or watch, and even the people themselves.

'Freedom is slavery,' Spock read, lips moving silently in synch with the book. 'Ignorance is strength. War is peace.'

It was the same thing the doctor had said, followed by George's quotation of ''So say the Fleet.''

The Fleet was not Starfleet. Starfleet was good and just and peacemaking. The Fleet was bad and evil and unfair and war mongering. And, according to the pamphlet of propoganda Spock was trying to digest, infallible. Never in the history of anything had the Fleet ever said anything that was wrong. Every prediction, every prophecy, even the weather forecasts had always been one-hundred percent correct.

_Improbable._ Spock's mind instantly supplied. _And more so, _impossible_._

'Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.' It was entirely logical, yet entirely illogical all at once. It was perfect, cold, hard logic - but emotionless. Dictatorship, communism, a tyrannical rule, and yet no one noticed as they did exactly as they were told and went through life-like slaves. Worse even, as slaves were at least treated like human beings. They were treated like inanimate robots, the Fleet never caring for them more than their function and doing away with them if they ever failed their task.

The Fleet was in control of the present, thus they made sure to twist history their own way. Because they twisted history, it made them appear to correctly predict the future, the near present.

It was like a little child arguing during a game that they had won when indeed they had lost. According to the proper rules, they had failed. According to the made up rules of the youth, he had won with the highest honors. The thought made Spock sick, his headache returning the more he strained his mind to try and understand how these people could be so blind yet have the truth before them all the time.

The steady droning of the holo-vision did nothing to still or soothe his head. Spock tossed the book behind him as he rose, not caring to remember the page he was on as he crossed the dusty carpet to shut off the television that seemed to have been left on in the real Selik's departure.

His brows furrowed much as they had when he had looked for the light switch in the bedroom, his findings much the same. There was a volume control button, push it up for a higher sound and down to the low droning it was now. There was no mute, there was no channel button, and there was no off switch.

But there was a webcam. A one-way webcam. It suddenly dawned on Spock that he was being watched. He smothered out the uneasy feeling wishing to overtake him as he slowly wandered throughout the apartment. Wires he had originally mistaken for shoddy electric took on new meaning, and it took every sinew of logic inside of him to not snap them in two. The disappeared Selik before him must have had the wires there for a reason, he must have been allowing himself to be watched for some motive Spock did not yet understand.

He slunk back to the chair, resuming the book with one eye on the words and the other towards the holo-vision. A program was on, nothing of interest or great importance, more or less an infomercial advertising some kind of workboots and merrily spouting how boot productions were overachived. They thanked the great men and women of the Fleet within the Cube Distrib.

Spock turned back to his book, mind far away and eyes unseeing. Captain Kirk had once been separated from the ship, electrocuted and memory wiped. He had married and was expecting a child, leading a peoples similar to ancient earth Native Americans. A perfect Utopia, he had called it, and it had been so in Jim's mind. It had hurt Spock, more than he would ever tell, to erase so much of it, the wife and child and perfection Jim had loved so dearly.

But, while Jim had begun a family and a life away from the 'Fleet, Spock was thrust into the exact opposite in an entirely different Fleet.

"Dystopia." Spock murmured, quickly glancing towards the holo-vision a moment before returning to the book. He couldn't be too careful now, not in the least.

* * *

A Klaxons blared, long and loud and once. There was no storming of feet, no shouting of voices, no Lieutenant Uhura calling a Red Alert.

Instead, there was the quiet shuffle of leather boots moving to their stations. Any whispering of voices murmuring amongst one other was washed away like suds down a drain. Spock followed a short, stocky man of wide girth and waddling steps as the man talked in a voice he immediately associated with the honk of a goose: loud and obnoxious.

"Your job today's simple due to your injury, Selik." the man, Mr. Montegue, and Spock's new boss, said as he motioned towards a large machine outfitted with a rolling, backless stool. "Up the assembly line others are glueing the leather to the bases and placing them in slots. You're job is to press down this lever every time the line stops to firmly attach the boot to the base. You got that?"

Spock gave a single nod. The man described the task as some great job, honking and quacking and puffing himself up as if he's talking of some high honor. He was simply throwing a switch to bring down a heavy weight, squashing the shoe together, and lifting it back up. Repeatedly.

Spock hasn't even started yet and already the task ahead seems tedious. He almost wished for his office back on the ship and endless human paperwork, the million and two loopholes he needed to find and evade and possibly exploit.

"Yes, sir." Spock replied politely. "I assume that I will return to my original task once I am fully healed?"

"You'll be back at your desk rating statistics soon enough." Mr. Montegue promised, smoothing back the few strands of hair he had back in its comb-over position. The pudgy, greasy, and profusely sweating man wiped his hands on his blue jeans, straightening his collar before speaking again. "Your break's at fourteen-thirty and continues until fifeteen-fifeteen. Simple enough to remember that, right?"

Another polite nod, even though the pandering tone this honking man used was similar to the way Jim had spoken to the children who had unwittingly followed their Guardian Angel into killing their parents. "I understand, sir."

"Good." Montegue slapped a greasy hand on the back of Spock's orange coveralls, the sickly color making Spock himself appear sickly as the green stood out more in his face and contrasted terribly with the baggy uniform. "Well, better let you get to it!"

Spock blew a quiet sigh of relief as the rounded man waddled away. He took only a moment to look around, noticing one holo-vision screen on each wall so that anybody could see it at any given time from any given corner - and vice-versa. Spock quickly took his seat as a second Klaxons sounded, hand on the lever as he prepared himself for hours of menial labor.

* * *

Spock felt dead. Brain dead, that is. His mind felt numb, so ill-used he wondered if this is how early 21st-century workers - or worse still, video gamers - felt. His mind felt like absolute mush, his grey cells clogged with the perpetual up-down, up-down, up-down, up-down, up-down his arm had pulled that lever his entire shift.

His arm still wanted to move that way, every time he went to reach for something with his right hand it immediately wanted to pull whatever it was down again. His knees had started to ache from sitting on that stool for so long, unmoving except for his arm and hand. His back had begun to hurt having been unsupported for so long.

From nine-fifeteen to fourteen-thirty, five hours and fifteen minutes of the longest hours of Spock's life. And, he learned this was just a lunch break. He had to go back after his recess to the same mind-numbing, logic-dumbing process of up-down, up-down, up-down, up-

"Hey, Selik!" a cheerful voice called to him from across the hall. "Over here, Selik!"

It was none other than George Kirk. It seemed the cafeteria was connected to the other working cubes of the Fleet. Four in all, Spock had counted, and all right next to each other to form an even larger square. They consisted of the Cube of Distribution, the Cube of Literature, the Cube of Control, and Cube of Order; or Cube Dis., Cube Lit., Cube Cont., and Cube Ord. by the workers. Some of the humans - if they were such - even shorted the abbreviations further and dropped the 'Cube' altogether. And each cube had a task more haunting than the last.

Perhaps Spock's job in the Cube of Distribution was the least twisted. It dealt with the making of everything - food and clothing, books and toys, right down to the razor blades the men used and ladies pantyhose. Each article of clothing was exactly the same, coveralls and dress suits and skirts and pants all the same for any age, they merely looked different according to the gender. The only types of shoes seemed to be the type of boots Spock helped churn out; large, clunky, and horribly made shoes that seemed to need frequent replacing.

The second cube, George's workplace, was the Cube of Literature. They wrote the stories and made up the newspapers the Cube of Distribution printed and sent out. Some worked in films and made movies for entertainment, others cartoons for children, and even more others in books for any age. Each dealt with the same topics, all plagiarizing the next with only different characters and same outcomes. They all were terribly bloody and violent, countless deaths and murderers, the Fleet was always right and strong and perfect, and those that opposed it were done away with as if they had never existed.

Thirdly came the Cube of Control. Spock came to learn that this was the Fleet's military. They were the ones that watched you through the holo-visions and made sure that you did everything the Fleet ever asked you to do. They patrolled the streets and droned the skies, peeping into windows and checking their webcams at random so one had to always appear correct according to Fleet standards or else they were erased from history; never having existed in the first place.

The fourth and final cube was perhaps the most terrifying of all, at least according to murmurs Spock had heard and the pamphlet he had finished reading. The Cube of Order, the law and justice of all of Ukay. They dealt with any kind of lawsuit, carried out punishments, and was the only courtroom on the entire globe, it seemed. The jury was always twisted and bias and were bribed to say what the Fleet wanted them to say, the judges were always horrible and lax with their rules, and the entire court was a farce. (The final was Spock's own reflections, as the Fleet would never say so and everyone seemed to belive Ukay was Utopia.)

The cafeteria lunch room connected all four cubes to unite as one for a short time. It connected, and was underground.

It felt natural going to the side of a Kirk, any Kirk of any world or universe. Whether it be a George or Sam or Jim, any Kirk was just a natural leader and Spock attractant. He crossed the loud, clambering, clattering, howling room to the other side. George greeted him with a smile his Jim often had when they met for a quick lunch.

"Did you bring your card?" George asked, grabbing a greasy, used, never washed tray and sliding one towards Spock. As the green bit of plastic was shown, George gave a nod of approval. "Good. Hang onto that and show it when you get to the counter."

"Is there some reason of importance I need to do so?" Spock questioned, his own voice barely audible to his own ears.

"Yeah." George snorted. "You're Vulcan. Unless ya want a bowl of beef stew, you show your card."

It made logical sense, and instead of the pink and grey stew George received a bowl of (the broth was pink and the meat grey), Spock received a very sad-looking salad. It was dry and free of any kind of dressing or oil, but a packet of mixed salt and pepper was tossed on the side for some kind of flavoring. Even before tasting it the lettuce was limp and dark, a few chunks of mangled, dark red tomatoes forming a thin bed for soggy, half-frozen carrots. Olives, black and green and straight from a can, had rolled to the side of the bowl-like plate and the pimentos stuffed in them were red and orange and almost nauseating to look at.

On each tray a dry biscuit wrapped in cellophane was tossed into one corner, and the ever present spork wrapped in more plastic on the other side. Amongst the drinks offered was a type of cloudy water, if it was simply grease and condensation on the glass or the actual water, Spock wasn't sure he wanted to know; an alcoholic beverage Dr. McCoy would have loved to taste, or perhaps not as the bourbon appeared cut with something; and soda water.

Spock decided on the third option, the soda water without sugar or aspritain and seemingly cleaner than the tap water.

The two sat down at a table seated for two, right under a large holo-vision and another adjacent that. George dug into his stew without qualm, eating up the watery soup that had grease covering the top and coating the grey, mushy pieces of meat and the broth a dark purplish pink. Spock was more cautious, poking the salad apart before stabbing up a leaf of lettuce. The green, watery vegetable refused to be punctured, though, and he ended up scooping it onto the spork. It was as greasy as the stew appeared, and Spock used the salt to mask the nauseating taste of whatever cooking oil was coating the hidden kitchen.

They talked between themselves, or at least George did. The tall man chattered gayly between bites of sludge and sips of watered down bourbon, telling all about the files he had changed for the Fleet that morning alone. Because of his work, wheat production had gone up thirty percent compared to the five percent it had originally been. And, as the Fleet had predicted that wheat intakes would increase twenty-five percent, they had overachived their quota

"But is it still not five percent?" Spock asked, sipping the soda water, the only edible food item in the entire cafeteria and actually tasted the way it was supposed to. "You only changed the numbers, not the product itself."

George blinked, spork dripping grease between its prongs and separating the water from the oil in the bowl of the spoon part. "What are you talking about? Of course the product changed. I changed the past so now it's the way the Fleet said it was." George sucked the drops of broth and grease from his spork. "Because the Fleet can never say anything wrong. We at the Lit. just ensure it."

"Interesting." Spock murmured, voice lost in the clamber of the cafeteria hall. He paused, his own black utensil halfway to the bowl of salad he was nowhere near finished with, and did not want to, and finished the soda water instead. "But the product is still essentially the same, only with another number on it."

George's shockingly blue eyes darted back and forth, glancing up towards the holo-vision they sat beneath. "I know you hit your head and were poisoned and all, but you really shouldn't be talking like that." he warned kindly. "Your brain's just all confused still, you'll feel better once you've rested up."

Would he? Spock was sick, and not simply because of the tainted salad or the supposed hit on the head he knew never happened. He was sickened by the stupidity of these people, the obvious laws of physics and science and logic they overlooked to swallow the - to steal a phrase from Jim - _bullshit_ the Fleet fed them. They did not think for themselves and instead let others, their government, do so for them. They did not care to even try, perfectly content to breeze through life with no more labor or freedom than a lap-dog.

_Freedom._ The word stuck out in Spock's mind the way the orange suit he wore now would stand out in the _Enterprise_. _I wonder if these people even know the meaning of the word._

A whole race of people content to work as slaves, to be trodden upon and never realizing they had arms to pull themselves up with. To simply nod in agreement with what they were told instead of realizing they had brains to think for themselves with. He wished to take this man, this George Kirk, and pull him up by the collar of his ugly jumpsuit and pin him to the wall and make him understand. Spock quickly brushed away the highly emotional though. It would be illogical to do so, and even more illogical as it would be like trying to teach a four-year old subspace physics and the formula to the continuum.

Humans, Spock was nearly positive these people were of that species, reacted much better to small talk and subtle pushes in the right direction. They liked to figure things out for themselves, even if it was previously discovered and they only stumbled upon it with much pushing.

"Do you have a wife?" Spock asked, hoping it wasn't rather sudden. He had never been one for 'small talk', Jim had said so himself.

George nodded, breaking off a piece of the hard, crumbly biscuit. "Yep. Winona. And we have a son named Samuel. He'll be turning fifteen in a few months."

This couldn't be coincidence. Winona and George Kirk, Sam Kirk: the names of Jim's mother and father and brother. There was no possible way, the calculations were so small it was illogical to even consider them, that this was all just chance and fate.

"You do not have another son?" he asked, head tilted.

George gave him a funny look, one Spock was becoming more and more accustomed to, and shook his head. "You're only allowed to have one child. What would we do with two?"

Jim Kirk did not exist in this universe, and all because of contraception. A sharp pang shot through Spock's side at the thought that his captain, one of the most brilliant and kindest men he knew, might have possibly even been _aborted_. Murdered in the womb simply because he was not firstborn and unwanted. It was uncertain if Jim's existence was simple never allowed to happen, due to abstinence or contraceptives, or if he really had been ripped from the womb or simply done away with by oral abortifacient. Perhaps this world was as crude with abortion as they were with so many other things, depending on wire clothes hangars and certain herbs to get rid of the unwanted life.

"I see." Spock said quietly, any tremble or hurt in his voice drowned out by the chatter of the cafeteria. He swallowed once, trying to drown out his thoughts and the pain beginning to rise up in his ears as the chattering continued on from countless mouths all around.

George looked for a moment as if he were about to talk, but a loud Klaxons sounded, hushing the room so quickly it would have been impossible to tell anyone had spoken just moments before. Like robots, each took their tray, finished or not, deposited them neatly for the next days meal, and returned to their jobs.

With a plastic clatter, the grimy blue tray Spock dropped upon the stack settled neatly into place. He had thought he was alone once more, on his way to his mind-numbing task of up-down, up-down, up-down, when a body bumped into his.

A woman, nearly as tall as he was yet just a few inches smaller and of human dissention, eyed him sceptically. Her eyes, he swore, were red and streaked with black the first time he looked. The second time showed them to be a hazel, cold and cruel and harsh. Her hair, a blonde so light it could have been called white, was pulled back in a tight pony-tail held together by a long red ribbon that hung onto her shoulders and back. She dropped her tray onto the stack, what once might have qualified as a rosy pink, all while eyeing Spock they way one would a person with plague.

"My apologies." Spock said politely, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

The woman's eyes only narrowed, her own jumpsuit of blue and tied with a sash of equal scarlet about her waist tight around her lithe frame. Her nostrils flared as she turned on her slightly heeled boots and took her place with others of tight blue worksuits. Spock blinked once before giving a small shake of the head. He quickly filed into line, simply wishing the task of up-down, up-down, up-down to be over with already.

He took his seat on the backless stool, the shoddy piece creaking under his weight and wriggling for a moment as he placed his hand on the lever. The Klaxons sounded again, and the conveyor belt started.

Jim couldn't come soon enough, at least in Spock's mind. _My captain will come for me_.

* * *

Author's Note - A few things I need to point out here.

1.) Spock's new name. _S'chn T'gai Selik cha' Skon_ is a few things combined. The first, it took some time to look this up, and the evidence is all over the place, but supposedly some say Spock's first name is S'chn T'gai. Others say that it is his clan name due to a book, but reading two lines down Spock's clan is something entirely else... And if Spock's 'real' last name is that unpronounceable gibberish starting with 'Z' or 'X', then Spock would be his first name...

To me, S'chn T'gai will mean his proper title. The way we say Mr., Mrs., or Ms. _Cha'_, I read somewhere, means 'son of'. So, Spock's new name is - Mr. Selik son of Skon. (Sounds better in Vulcan, doesn't it?)

2.) Selik, if I remember correctly, was Spock when he jumped into the Guardian of Forever to change his own past in 'Star Trek: The Animated Series.' He used the name to keep his true identity from being discovered. It is different from the 2009 movies, where Spock Prime's alias is Selek. (At least, the spellings were different according to the subtitles the television gave me for the movie and CBS dot com gave me for the show.)

3.) The quotes Spock read from the pamphlet, mainly, are right from George Orwell's book in which this story is derived from.

4.) 221 (B) is from Sherlock Holmes. He lived in apartment 221B, and as Spock quotes Sherlock in the 6th movie, was it? *shrugs* And I like Sherlock. Also, the part where Spock's thinking and goes 'Improbable' and 'Impossible' comes from Sherlock's life maxim (and one of my many, many own) 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable,_ must be the truth.'

5. 6. and 7.) I own not a thing. Self-beta'd, so I own the mistakes. Since my family and I are teaming up with my aunt and her family for a 2-day trip to PA, ya'll gettin' this a mite early.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

_'He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:_

_'To the future, or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone-to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:_

_From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink-greetings!'' -Written by Winston Smith (George Orwell _1984)

* * *

It was late, and Spock had never been so tired. It was not just a simple tired, a feeling of relief and satisfaction of a good day's work after battling Klingons and Romulans, signing peace with another planet, and learning a new culture in just a few hours for deep and detailed debates. No, this was a mind-boggling fatigue that started in his bones and worked outwards. He was sore, but not enough to complain, and his mind ached for some kind of stimulus. He needed something to work and sedate his brain, the one organ he hadn't used the entire day.

He sunk into the worn chair, sighing heavily as he plopped down. He had finished the unlearning book he had been giving just the day before, and his stomach churned at the thought of rereading it. No, he could not bear the sight of it let alone bare read it again.

Perhaps he should do what he was trained to do - explore. He had only given the small home a brief glance the day before, checking the rooms for insects and disease and dirt instead of an in-depth search. It was exactly what his mind craved at this very moment, and he left his chair, ignoring the mindless hum of near silenced chatter from the movie the single channel of the holo-vision played.

He first checked out the kitchen, rummaging under the counter and inside the refrigerator. Beneath the sink he found dusting rags and polishing rags, unused sponges for dishes, dish detergent and cleaning spray, wood polish and silver shine, and a cache of other cleaning items all unused and never to be used. There were barely any dishes to really ever be cleaned, and no silverware that wasn't a plastic spork to ever need metal shining. The only wooden item in the entire house seemed to be a little desk hidden out of sight of the holo-vision in the nook, but he would look into that later.

Inside the fridge were some vegetables and fruits, apples and oranges and celery, and even a jar of peanut butter, but no bread or milk. A pitcher of fruit juice that had gone off stained its glass container an odd color, the juice inside nearly wine and the fruit used unable to be deduced. The greenish-brown liquid was poured down the sink, the pitcher rinsed out and set aside. All that was left was the freezer: some frozen vegetables and nothing else.

Then he checked the bedroom, the hidden desk too much of a temptation and beckoning and close to the holo-vision to be checked without concern. He looked under the bed, finding nothing but tribble-sized dust bunnies and a pair of ratty slippers that looked like they had been long forgotten, shredded and worn and filled with dust. He disposed of those, checking the closet for something he might have missed. Nothing, nothing but a spare ugly jumpsuit and a change of socks.

The bathroom was as plain as the bedroom, two towels hanging by a step-in shower and a toilet and a sink with storage. The storage drawers held a treasure of razor blades, something Spock was loath to admit he was going to need as he rubbed a hand over his chin and mouth; a stick of deodorant, something Spock wasn't sure he wanted to use after it was previously used; and a small stack of wash cloths and mini-shampoo bottles next to tiny bars of soap. It felt like hotel fare, they were so small and neatly packed.

There was nothing in the living room, nothing but the chair and holo-vision and that inviting little desk that was hidden far out of sight of the holo-vision screen.

He felt like a little child disobeying their parent. It felt as if he were breaking some unwritten rule, some unheard of law that was simply understood as common sense and never, ever broken. No one had ever said he wasn't allowed to leave the constant viewing of a holo-vision, but the screens and bugs were everywhere to imply that it was. The book hadn't written it was a great offence to slide out of view, even for a moment, but he still glanced towards the window as if he half expected it to be kicked in and flooded with police - Or Cube of Control workers.

His breath caught as he stooped down, his head nearly hitting the top of the sweeping, low nook roof and knelt down before the desk. Perhaps this had been a place of meditation for the Selik before him, a small pouch of incense or a candle inside along with a tiny statue or an abridged _Book of Surak_.

But, on sliding open the single drawer, he did not find the scent of incense or a candle, nor a _Book of Surak_. Instead, a thin book with an untitled cover looked back at him. It's outer shell was marbled with green and yellow and light blue, and the pages he flipped through blank and a creamy yellow. The pages felt textured, as if the old, lightly colored paper had been made the old-fashioned way of pulping and drying.

All but a few pages were written on, a child-like scrawl marking the journal. Spock paused, refusing to let himself see the words of a fellow Vulcan's diary. This was something private and sacred, perhaps even illegal and daring in this world of sheep-like cowards. He almost closed the little book, it's binding cracking with how little it had been used. He paused, the large, scratching letters of the near-illiterate perhaps hiding some deep and profound message Spock needed. Besides, what was a diary if it was not to be read by the next generation or someone close?

Spock was neither of these things, but he was half-Vulcan. That made him and Selik half-brothers, even in this shattered world. He could not take the diary back with him, for fear he might be observed reading an odd book before the holo-vision. He would have to read it quickly here, memorize it with his eidetic memory, and reflect on it long and hard in bed when the curfew had passed, the lights were off, and all was dark.

He slid it back to the first page, brushing the pages the way one would a book of papyrus leaves found from earthen ancient Egyptian times. The first few pages were chaotic nonsense, the blabbering of a fool uncertain as to what a paper and ink pen were for. On the first page a great, spiraling doodle took up nearly a fourth, and pages 1-4 were written in letters so large one line took up half a page in itself.

It was somewhere between a movie Selik had viewed at a local theater and the latest statistics in shoestrings did Spock finally come across something of importance.

_"I'm dead already,'_ it read, _'I may still breathe and think and move and talk and exist, but I am dead. I have committed the greatest sin of all; I will certainly be shot for it. I don't know why I write this, I doubt anyone will ever read it, the Fleet will destroy it once they have me. But, there is some faint glimmer of hope that keeps my hand going. The hope that someday the Fleet will be overthrown, that someday all will be equal and free to think their own thoughts and rule their own lives. Where history remains unchanged and references do not vary from day-to-day. _

_I've been told I am delusional, that my telepathy is messed up in some way or another. I'm told I was born a mental retard and the most I will ever be able to accomplish is applying glue to the bottoms of boots and picking numbers for statistics - idiot's work. I'm told that my 'remembering' of peoples who have been taken by the Fleet and erased from history is faulty, the Fleet says they never existed so it must be so._

_But why do I remember? I remember humans and Vulcans and Andorians alike. I remember that, just four years ago... if time is really what the Fleet says it it, when Vulcan was the enemy and Andorica was our ally. But now the Fleet says it's never been so - Vulcan has been friends with Ukay since the beginning of time and always will be to the end of time._

_Am I mad? Am I delusional? Am I a mental retard?_

_There is no proof, no evidence, no one believes me. I get looks from others from time to time, and I know they think the same as I and yet are too afraid to stand up and speak out. If we all were united, all off those in Ukay against the Fleet, all in Vulcan against their own version of Fleet, and the Andorians the same, the Fleet would be powerless!_

_Perhaps I am mad. I am mad, but dead all the same.'_

Spock didn't have time to waste now in reflecting over what he had read. He filed the words away within his mind and turned the page. Perhaps not as important, but something interesting was there. At least, to a Vulcan.

_'I went for my physical today._' Selik had written. _'The doctor said that, thankfully, I am not getting any stupider. He says my mind is still a mess and my readings show hormonal and emotional imbalances, but I am no more mentally retarded than I was the day before. _

_I was Controlled as well. And, as usual, I was explained what the Control was to do. Even though it shares the name with the C. Cont., it does not have anything to do with them. It is a medical procedure in which the demonic, legendary Vulcan Time is eradicated from his mind and blood so that he does not Burn. _Pon Farr_ is kept under lock and key with a single shot. It feels like glass and ice in the veins as it is injected into the bloodstream. This will be my fourth shot since the age of maturity - in which mine was seven years of age. _

_The doctor promised me that it was entirely safe, yet I had three friends who I know died from it, and other friends who know others, and those friends who know even more Vulcans who have died from this extinguishing of Fire. The Fleet still endorses the use of this drug, though, and it is promised to be 100% safe.'_

There was an entire two pages in which Spock skipped over, the motivational words read once but as they repeated themselves he didn't have time to finish each line.

_'DOWN WITH FLEET! DOWN WITH FLEET! DOWN WITH FLEET!'_

He landed on the last page, eyes devouring each and every word.

_'I'm going to die, I know I am. There is a woman, a woman in the C. Cont., who is onto me. She knows, somehow, I keep a diary and knows my every rebellious thought. I know I will be taken in by the Cont. workers and delivered to the C. Ord. and then I will be obliterated. I don't know what will happen to me there - whether I am tried or tortured, I do not know. Some rebels have been televised, sobbing, red or green or blue blood smeared, broken messes begging the judge to punish them quickly, betraying every secret they had ever held, and then thanking the judge for such a kind and merciful trial and punishment as they are led away to their deaths, then to have been said to never exist or their history changed._

_It disgusts me every time, yet I watch eagerly like anyone else. Or, I did. Now I can barely watch the holo-vision and the trials or even a hanging without my stomach turning in fear. I do not know of what I am afraid of, I know I am to die and accept that. But yet, I am afraid. What will become of me, a dead man with no past? I will be eradicated and forgotten like all the others I still remember. Will no one remember me?_

_I will die tonight, I know I will. The spy drones have been hovering especially close to my home and I will be swept out in the darkness of night. It's always at night, when the C. Conts get you. Or so I've been told._

_My mind craves... something, I do not know. I've read all the books Fleet gives to Vulcans to steady their minds. They do not work, I don't think they ever have._

_I will die tonight. I will die and be erased from all of history. All my work will simply have been fate for some and untraceable statistics to others, perhaps my honors pinned on another chest._

_I will die... and I accept it.'_

And that was it. Spock quickly closed the marbled diary, sliding it into the desk drawer and leaving the nook. His mind was awhirl as he settled into his seat, eyes staring blankly at the television screen humming some nonsensical tune about Ukay, perhaps the anthem. Spock didn't care, his head too filled at the moment with emotional fears and horrors of what this Selik must have felt.

A Vulcan hormonally suppressed, liquid ice pumped into him to keep the Fires out of his body. The Vulcans here did not burn, they froze. Perhaps they died when the _pon farr_ hit and their bodies were unable to cope, the ice in them acting as antibodies and white blood cells that attacked everything. When the _plak tow_ struck them, the Blood Fever and Burning, they would do the opposite and Freeze. There was only one thing Vulcans hated more than water, and that was cold.

It seemed centering meditation was withheld from these Vulcans as well, instead books of what Spock had originally thought Fleet poetry being force-fed to those of green blood to give them a faint grasp of control. It was a band-aid solution, a butterfly bandage covering up a severed arm and claiming it was a perfect fix.

Blood roared in Spock's ears, burning hotly for all the souls forced to suffer here and never knowing. The humans, ripped of their instinct to travel and explore and learn. The Vulcans, their proud heritage and logic torn from them. And the Andorians, who knew what horrors they were subjected to. Perhaps they were forced to take pills to make their skin white instead of blue, or maybe their antenna were cut off to look more earthen Humanoid.

The roaring in Spock's head turned into a scream, thousands and thousands of voices raising together in rage. The minds of millions hit his mental shields like a battering ram, one he was unprepared for, and shot through his body like a lead projection. A primitive battle cry rang out from all sides of the apartment and the streets below.

Spock leapt to his feet, maybe the Andorians were taking the District of Ukay by storm and force. He ran to the window, throwing to open and looking out. The streets were clear, the opposite of Spock's lungs and eyes as he choked on the dirty air. He quickly closed it, taking in a lungful of clean air as he glanced about. The screams continued, stomping and crashing and shattering glass sounding out intermittently from the surrounding apartments. It sounded as if a riot or violent domestic fight had broken out within each of the apartments, and farther up the streets at the city's Square, where large holo-visions watched from every corner.

And, just as fast as it had happened, it stopped. A single shattering of glass, and all was silent. Spock found, to his surprise, he was panting from the onslaught of noise and pure _hate_ he had felt from each body within half a mile.

A flourish of trumpets sounded from his own holo-vision, and a dry tone droned out, "_And that concludes our Moment's Hate."_

A 'Moment's Hate', Spock shook his head as he all but collapsed into the chair, temples throbbing. That hadn't been a moment, but one and a half minutes of the strongest, rawest, most powerful negative emotions Spock had ever picked up on. It was stronger still than the ship of hundreds of Vulcans mentally crying out in death as their ship was eaten by a giant space-eating amoeba.

It reminded him of the Red Hour forced by the computer Landru on a planet so far away. The people, young adults from eighteen to thirty-four looting and beating and ravishing and destroying and setting fire to and raping and committing as many deplorable acts as Spock could think of. Instead of intense feelings of pleasure, later revealing how evil they were when the madness had passed, these people had even more intense feelings of evil and such _hate_. Not even a Klingon could ever hold so much hate in his heart as the humans and Vulcans surrounding him for that one-minute and thirty-seconds had.

The light above him flickered, a warning that lights-out would happen in five minutes. It was late, and Spock had been tired even before this planet's 'Moment's Hate.' Now he was exhausted, dragging himself from his chair and to the bedroom. He ungracefully fell into a heap of dusty blankets, burying his face in a pillow that smelled of another, and was asleep before the light in the other room had been shut off.

* * *

Vulcans do not dream. Contrarily, exhausted half-Vulcan, half-humans do. Most of the time, Spock's dreams were of past memories. Mission gone right or wrong, depending if it was a good dream or a bad one, and reflections on the past that continued into his REM-state subconscious.

This dream was confusing, a cross between a nightmare and a pleasant dream. It had started off light, darkening like a stormy sky, and lightening again before blackening worse than before. It was during the especially dark, spooky part where Spock's breath caught, eyes flashing open in the dark, light less room.

There was no momentary panic, no searching of eyes across the dark room in search of where he is or why. He was Vulcan. He knew exactly where he was, in the bed of someone dead who died and would never be remembered, and while he did not exactly know how he got here he knew he would be taken out of it very soon. Jim and Doctor McCoy would find a way to get him, he just knew it.

He paused, mentally checking the time. It was early, Oh-four-hundred hours back on the ship and roughly the same here. It wasn't early to a Vulcan nor one used to military schedules, but it was early to a normal civilian or one who lived in this world. He wondered if he should get up, but perhaps that would make the Control workers who watched the webcams suspicious. He vouched to remain under the warm covers, letting his mind drift and body rest.

It was a strange world here, and strangely familiar. While Spock had never personally lived in a place so tyrannical as this world he had visited many planets that were heavily Communistic. There was even one planet that affiliated themselves with earthen German Nazis. There were no Nazis here, but the Fleet. The Fleet was always there, always waiting, always watching.

_Big Brother is watching you._ Flitted through Spock's mind as he finally remembered why this world seemed to familiar. It was nearly a carbon copy of a book he had once read and discussed with his captain late into the night. There was no single personification of this government, though. It was an entire Fleet keeping their people under their thumb and holding the noose tightly wrapped around each neck if one of their slaves misstepped.

Selik had been one of those slaves, a Vulcan killed for his opposing beliefs in a mythical freedom he didn't understand. It was a natural longing in each and every soul, a desire to think and feel and learn for themselves instead of having it dictated to them. Humans and Vulcans and Andorians alike all valued freedom and their right to privacy. This planet, this world, this Fleet was doing its best to smother out that instinct. A very improbable, but far from impossible task.

Spock closed his eyes, sighing heavily in the dark. Everything here was so familiar yet so different, it lined up so closely to that book he had read but there were noticable variations and differences. Why did the names of this place ring so many bells in his head, though? Ukay and Gritan and Earth - the last was obvious - but the others just seemed to hint at something he just couldn't-

Of course, Spock's eyes opened again. How stupid was he to have missed such parallels? His original thought of having woken up in the UK, the British Isles, had been correct. It was the lies of the Fleet making him wrong. This very well was the Planet Earth, the Country UK, and Gritain...

Great Britain. A combination of the word. The Fleet wasn't clever, merely witty.

That left only the no'ets. That word struck him as very odd. It sounded like a strained version of the word 'note', but the no'ets seemed to be something looked down on and despised. They were not Fleet members or workers, so they were considered unimportant. The lower caste of this world, the untouchable lower class that made their own way despite being frowned upon by this planet.

_This parallel world_, Spock was reluctant to think. He was not only far away from home, he was far away from his own timeline. It would be hard enough for Jim to find him in another galaxy let alone a foreign universe. Thinking logically, a task seemingly unbearable at the moment, he had to humor the thought that he might never be found. He might forever be left in this backwards, twisted, communistic world until he died or was found out and killed.

He closed his eyes, imagining himself back on the bridge and pulling away from his scanner. _Captain, I calculate the approximate chance of your finding me to be forty-one point-_

_Shut up, Spock, _the Captain grinned, _you know I don't belive in no-win scenarios._

_This is not as much a 'no-win scenario' as it is highly improbable that you will ever find me. _Spock replied.

_Well, then,_ Captain Kirk snorted, his green eyes shining, _I guess I just don't belive in odds._

An alarm buzzed, like an old alarm clock blaring in each and every apartment and originating from the holo-visions. It was six o'clock, time to rise and great the day and the smog covered sun.

* * *

George and Spock met again at the same time for lunch break. Each had the same foods, George his pink broth and grey beef chunks shimmering from cooking oil, and Spock with his sorry looking salad covered in the same grease. Both had the same drinks, a small goblet of watery bourbon and soda water in a tall glass. They did not, however, claim the same seats they had the day before. It was impossible to ever take the same chair or table you had had a day before, there were so many people and bodies all taking whatever seat they could. Spock and George were seated in the furthest seating possible, Spock's chair back flush against the wall and George's back towards the traffic and commotion of the cafeteria.

George began talking again. Spock waited for the Kirk to make some comment on the 'Moment's Hate' of the night before, how odd or invigorating or anything at all to give him some clue as to what it was about. Instead, the sandy blonde chatted about the news he had made that morning and how proud he was of his son for all the Fleet related activities he did.

"Sam's a member of the Squad." George stated between mouthfuls of pink and grey slime. "He's top of his Squadron and well underway of becoming a Squad Leader."

Spock simply assumed the Fleet Squad was some communist Boy Scouts. The more George talked, the more it seemed likely. "I see." he replied dryly.

"Ya know," George pointed out with an accusing thrust of his spork, "I didn't see you last night at the Hate."

Spock's heart leapt in his side. Perhaps now would be his explanation. He just had to, as Jim would say, 'play it cool' and it should all go in his favor. Absently he fiddled with the package that contained the dry biscuit - a cross between a cracker and a crouton and a cookie - and crumbled it over the salad. Perhaps it would help mask the flavor of cooking sludge. "I was at home when it happened." he replied truthfully. "Where were you?"

"Outside at the Square." George stated, finished with his lunch and merely taking a swig of light amber liquid from time to time. "The Hate's always better out with the crowd. It really gets you riled up - but I'm sure Pike'd make even a Klingon's blood boil."

Spock blinked, only momentarily distracted that perhaps Klingons were docile here. "Admiral Pike?"

George's nostrils flared at just the name. He glared at Spock, electric blue eyes sharp and biting. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about _Pike._" The name sounded like it left as bad a taste in George's mouth as the salad did Spock's.

"Of course not." the Vulcan answered quickly, sipping his tall, sweating glass of carbonated water.

George only hummed, snorting as he leaned back in his chair. "I hate that man, Admiral Pike. He's entirely against the Fleet, always trying to convince others to leave it or sabotaging Fleet meetings. He calls himself - well, him and his gang - they call themselves the Federation."

"Indeed." was Spock's only comment, seemingly too absorbed in the soggy salad to care.

George snorted again. "You don't belive it either, do you?" He didn't wait for Spock to answer, barreling on. "I've heard that, years ago, Pike was offed by the Fleet but there's still a few Federation members that pop up from time to time. They're the ones that always mess up everything - speeches, Fleet predictions, even banners and decorations, you name it. If there's a mistake, you can bet that within the week someone will turn themselves in as a member of the Federation."

Spock hummed quietly. It sounded very much like Nazi Germany's claims that the Jews were to blame for any mistake. Communism was the same anywhere, even in a parallel universe.

"_And_," George went on, "the Fleet just shows that clip of Pike once a week just to show us what they saved us from. A world that Fleet didn't exist in, didn't care for us, and instead Pike ruled us like the cruel dictator he was."

"Pike was only one man, though." Spock pointed out quietly. "I'm quite certain that, even if he had succeeded in overthrowing Fleet, its members and workers could have overthrown him and started their own government system."

"Why would we want to do that?" George asked, face puckered as if he had just eaten something gross... oh, wait. "Your suggestion doesn't even make sense. How would we start our own government without Fleet telling us what it's supposed to look like?" He laughed, almost nervously, shaking his head. "Spock, you're one crazy Vulcan."

Spock merely shrugged with his hands. He'd been called much worse by the ships Chief Medical Officer, and over things much more menial than dictatorship and tyranny.

George lifted a thin eyebrow as Spock pushed away his tray and half-consumed salad. "Aren't you going to finish that?"

"I find I am not as hungry as I originally thought." Spock replied, saved by the bell only as the return-to-work Klaxons sounded.

The ghostly silence swept over the previously clattering cafeteria, finished or not, each person taking up their tray to deposit it for the next day's lunch break. Same as before, George and Spock were separated sometime between taking up their trays and leaving, but not before George had leaned over and whispered,

"See you at the Center tonight?"

Spock had nodded, the crowd succeeding in breaking the Vulcan and Kirk apart. And, just like the day before, the tightly clothed woman with the red-ribboned, tied up ponytail and sashed woman stepped before him. She tossed her tray onto the stack, this time a dirty mint green. She took a step forward, and whirled around.

Spock paused, hand extended towards the stack and eyes locked with the hazel eyes cutting through his own of chocolate-brown. "May I help you?" he asked softly in the quiet room.

"Who are you?" she demanded, voice sharp and military, just like her stance.

"I am Selik, son of Skon." he replied as easily as his own, real name and lineage. "And what is your name?"

The woman did not seem amused, stomping a foot as she harshly turned militantly to march off with the rest of her troop instead of answering. Spock took a measured breath, quickly placing his tray neatly on the stack before heading down his own tunnel back to the Cube of Distribution. Apparently boots didn't stick themselves together, they needed his arm for that.

* * *

Spock had exactly twenty point one six seven minutes until he was needed to appear at the Fleet Center, more or less a Sunday social on any day of the week for Fleet members to talk about Fleet, do Fleet activities, and make banners or posters or whatever Fleet required as propoganda that week. It seemed to be quite a regular activity for most, if not all, workers and members of Fleet of Ukay. Selik had made quite a show of coming to them, it seemed. It was needed to stay inconspicuous and in the shadows, a social setting to blend in with all the other mindless workers.

Spock glowered to himself as he had to prepare himself for two tasks he disliked greatly. The first was anything that had to do with more people than just his Captain and a tri-D chess board, and the second a hot water shower. He much prefered a sonic to an one-part oxygen for two-parts hydrogen fluid solution. So, for ten point two of those minutes, he procrastinated.

He first went through the closet, looking for something to wear other than his hazard orange work suit. There were pants and clean tops, black pants and shirts of light ash grey with collars of dark blue, or black pants and light ash shirts of grey with collars of blue. He had two choices of shoes, the boots he wore to work or boots he didn't wear to work and looked exactly the same, and three choices of white socks with red heels and toes. There was a black zip-up fleece sweat-shirt amongst the clothing he chose along with his only option other than orange work suits.

His wardrobe set up, he went into the bathroom. First he turned the shower on, letting it warm up before he even thought of putting his body beneath it. Next he rummaged through the neat drawer, reorganizing it before chosing a bottle of shampoo and a mini-bar of soap. The shampoo claimed it was a masculine green apple scent, yet the soap fluid was an artificial blue. The soap was a plain bar of white soap, no scents or misleading colors. He wondered briefly if these people still used lye in their soap, but no list of ingredients could be found.

His wardrobe set, his cleaning products chosen, and now a towel placed within hands reach, it was time to wash. He unzipped the jumpsuit, the single zipper stretching from under his chin to his left foot much like a human child's footie pajamas. He stepped out, old-fashioned long underwear protecting his body from the steamy, wet mist curling up from under the step-in shower's mildew covered curtain. He hurriedly stepped out of those as well, the steam slapping his body like a dripping rag of cold water. Before he could talk himself out of, or into, the task at hand he hurriedly stepped into the shower and closed his eyes.

Water flowed over his head and chest and dripped all the way down to his feet. A torrent poured over his eyelashes and worked sideways down his eyebrows and dripped from the points of his ears and into his ear canals. This was why he hated water.

Similar to a wet cat, he groped for the shampoo bottle. He wouldn't dare open his eyes and risk his second eyelid sliding down. While it didn't hurt, it only served to remind him of the time he had been blind and it itched when in place. He lathered the small, measured amount in his hand before massaging it into the damp bangs laying every which way on his head. He could hear the foam snapping and popping as he rinsed it out, hurrying much the same with the little bar of soap to remove the thick feeling of smog and dirt from his face and body.

With a creak, he quickly shut off the water and grabbed his towel, briskly drying himself off and hurrying back into his underclothes. He wasn't sure if Fleet could see him in the shower, but no place ever felt safe from the ever-present holo-visions and the peering web-cam eyes.

Never had he dressed so quickly, not even when a Red Alert was blaring and he was in his favorite pair of blue silk pajamas. (Any Vulcan would claim that to have favor was to have preference, and to have preference was to have an emotional attachment with something or another. But watching his father pick rose petals from his mother's garden for a snack, Spock knew himself that was a bunch of malarkey.) He hurried into the pants, buttoned the shirt up to the top button and laid the collar straight, and neatly pulled up the socks and tied his boots just so. Dr. McCoy had once joked, watching Jim and Spock pull on some clothes before leaving the sickbay, that Jim might be the poster boy for Starfleet, but Spock was their runway model.

He never very much enjoyed that comment. Fully dressed, he inspected himself in the reflection of the dirty window, no mirrors other than a small one used only for shaving hanging just above the sink. It looked odd, so small on so much wall, but as Spock passed it by he caught sight of the lower half of his face.

He sighed, apparently his cleaning rituals were no done yet. He rummaged through the cupboards again, withdrawing a three-bladed razor fit with a clear cap. There was no shaving cream, so the last of his soap from his shower was going to have to do for now.

He lathered the bar soap as much as he could, smearing it evenly over his face. He would have to move quickly before the soap began to harden. He donned the razor. It glided evenly over his face, removing the dark bristles beginning to form on his face. He was thankful this blade was, while no beard suppressor or electric shaver, more up to date that a single, knife-like switch blade. It also appeared unused.

Finally, showered and cleanly dressed and shaved, it was now time to head to the Center.

Spock could only hope time spent there was more enjoyable than his work at the conveyor belt.

* * *

Having set his expectations as low as possible, Spock was not disappointed by the Fleet Center. In fact, even by his expectations, he was almost pleasantly surprised. While small and run down, the building outside paled in comparison to the inside. A single hall connected four large rooms, each one roughly the size of a typical school gym, and divided by age.

The youngest children, between the ages of toddling and crawling to eight years, were placed in the first room. Inside, Spock could see toys littered about and Fleet recommended books for that age. Only three instructors patrolled the room, three instructors for a room of nearly one hundred children.

The second was for ages eight through eighteen, and divided again into age-appropiate groups within the room. The younger children did smaller tasks, perhaps pasting and cutting or reading older books while the teens and young adults made propoganda or drilled themselves along with their Squad Leaders.

Thirdly was the room Spock needed to enter, adults of any age mingling and socializing while making their own banners or whatever Fleet needed. Sometimes, it seemed, when holidays or important speeches were coming up, members would prepare in advance with colorful decorations or papers or anything one could need for any kind of parade or speech.

The fourth room, closed and dark and unused, seemed to be some kind of congregational hall used by all of the groups for large meetings or special holidays. As nothing important seemed to be going on, it remained locked and the other rooms occupied instead.

Spock cautiously stepped into the hubbub of the third room, eyes scanning its many tables and chairs. In many ways it was no different from the babies room, more adult books and newspapers replacing the colorful, picturesque books of youth and sharper scissors in the activity cupboard. It was more or less, in Spock's opinion, a community center. All it was missing was a chess set, as of now Spock was willing to settle for checkers or even a card game of _Old Maid _or _Crazy 8's_, but those items remained to be wanted.

Company, however, was soon supplied.

"Hey, Selik." George Kirk beamed using the proper name instead of the designated 'nickname' out in public. "I'm glad you could make it."

The man was sitting in a blue metal folding chair, an assortment of colored paints and brushed as he and several others worked on signs with varying sayings of 'Long Live Fleet'. Besides him was a woman, thick in the arms and middle but far from heavyset, and a simple yet attractive face. Her hair was long and unruly, an orange-ish, reddish auburn shade as it cascaded down her back in a tight yet twisty ponytail, and here eyes were a very familiar shade of green. _It appears my captain inherited both of his parents best assets._

He wondered briefly how his captain would look with the dazzling blue eyes of his father, but quickly shook away the foolish thought. In what world, parallel or not, would his Captain Kirk have blue eyes? Green suited him just fine.

"Selik," George followed Spock's eyes towards the woman besides him, smiling up at the Vulcan. "This is my wife, Winona."

"It's very nice to meet you." the woman smiled, Irish green eyes shining as she held her hand in the _ta'al_. "My husband's told me so much about you."

"A pleasure." Spock replied politely, thankful for an empty chair as he pulled it alongside the two of them. "Kirk has spoken often of you, as well."

"Oh." the woman rolled her eyes. "I'm sure there wasn't much to tell."

"But all good things." her husband grinned charmingly before donning a paintbrush to add another thick coat of black paint to a very large 'F'.

It was strange, Spock thought to himself, how very much in love this two people seemed to be in a world that seemed to despise any kind of positive emotions. No couple had Spock yet seen that even remotely resembled a fondness between two people, whether it be lovers holding hands in a stroll or talking with someone of the opposite gender about something better than Winona and George were something of an oddity in this oddity of a world. Maybe they were something the Fleet despised beneath a thin veneer of tolerance, just allowing the two to carry on simply because they did their tasks well.

Spock quickly realized that George was talking - a rambling chatter Jim seemed to have inherited from his own father of his own world, a universal constant. "- too bad you weren't here just a few minutes earlier. I could have introduced you to Sam, but he left with his Squad on an outing and won't be back until tomorrow."

How any parent could say that with so little worry, Spock was uncertain. He was almost happy, if Vulcans felt such an emotion, that James had not been born into such a cruel, harsh, unfeeling, coldly logical world.

It was all a Vulcan could strive for, yet when the true intent of your beliefs stared you back in the face tenfold anything you could ever imagine, it made him question his very religion.

* * *

Author's Note - And we're still not to the meat and potatoes of this story. I don't think it will be outrageously long, but I'm hoping for at least 10 chapters. I like them a lot longer (See my _Elementary_, a never ending monster, e.g.)

Not much to say on this chapter. I do wish to point out that my use of the word 'retardation' has nothing to do with faulting of making fun of autism. The entire use of the word is just to show the depravity of this world. Hense why I used the term 'mental retardation'. The doctor wasn't calling him stupid - the Webster's dictionary meaning of the word 'retard' (slang) - but 'mentally retarded' - the lexicon definition of slow or mentally handicapped. Obviously, the true Selik wasn't, just wanted to point out that I meant no offence to anyone.

Also, I dropped some ST-2009 hints in there. This is written as TOS, but Jim's parents are never shown, unlike Amanda and Sarak. (I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure they weren't ever shown, Jim's parents) I know Winona looked rather different in the movies, but this is an Alternate Universe Spock's in and I'm playing off that fact that his parents are not shown. I kept George the way he looked in the movies, just 20 years down the line. Jim had to get his green eyes from someone (as they are green in TOS, not blue... personally, I've never like blonde hair/blue eyes but Jim in the movies pulls them off so well it's impossible to hate. I also have always loved electric blue eyes. I look more like Spock, same shade eyes but lighter brown hair.)

Just a hint of warning, when we meet Sam I'm again going to do my own thing. He was only shown in _Operation: Annihalate!_ where he was dead. He had a little mustache and blondish/brown hair. (I'll have to fact check that last point), but as he's a kid here I can't give the kid facial hair like that.

BIG NEWS! So far I have only one reviewer - the lovely **Scottea **who is most enjoyable to talk to - as a bunch of readers have decided to leave me floundering with what they think of this story.

I have just been asked by **something went wrong** if she could translate this story into Russian.

Obviously, I said yes, with much self-*squeeing* involved. I would like to give her a big shout-out as well, along with hugs and cookies and kudos and brownies. So... that's about it.

One lovely reviewer, and one wonderful translator. My thanks to both of you *standing ovasion* and please, the rest of you people:

Please enjoy and review.

(SIDE NOTE: Forgive this unruly/outrageously long A/N, but I have been thinking more into Spock's name of _S'chn T'gai_. I understand that Vulcan, like Chinese, probably puts the last name first to show the family/clan. It's more direct. I understand that and agree with it... but, just to stay out of that argument with this story, it's merely a title of respect like Mr. and Mrs. and Ms.)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

_'Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.' - Winston Smith (George Orwell _1984_)_

* * *

_Bzzzz._

The hum of the motor keeping the belt moving down the line hummed loudly, the crankshaft was out of alignment. It buzzed and hummed and ratcheted at odd moments throughout the day, unnoticed by the humans and very much known to Mr. 'Selik.' It would be a simple fix, a simple tap of a hammer to put the offending piece back in place, but as Spock's arm was currently being used for up-down, up-down, up-down, it would remain screeching and squealing.

The conveyor belt stopped, he pulled his lever, and the belt continued on. Boots were pressed together, the leather bunching up only a moment beneath the heavy weight before smoothing out again like rubber. It was an endless task, boring and mundane, tedious and trying, slow and mind-numbingly-

"Selik."

The Vulcan didn't jump, merely turned towards the speaker, hand still wrapped around the warm, red handle of the throw-switch. "Mr. Montegue." he replied politely. " How may I be of assistance, sir?"

The pudgy, greasy man wiped his hands on his large blue jeans, eyeing the still conveyor belt a moment. "Selik, I think you've worked on this line long enough. If you feel up to it, I believe it's time for you to head back to your regular job."

The honk of the man seemed almost pandering. Spock quickly had to remind himself that Selik was labeled 'mentally retarded', a very harsh term in his 23rd Century timeline so far away. Especially as Selik had not been special needs or mentally handicapped in any way at all, other than the brainwashing he knew was wrong and didn't know how to fight. He had to bear this with as much patience as Selik had, and simply nodded his head.

It was odd, Spock thought for a moment as he followed the waddling, goose of a man up the long halls of the Cube of Distribution, how he had not yet been discovered as a fraud. He looked similar to Selik, pointed ears and slanted eyebrows, black hair in what McCoy dubbed a 'bowl cut', and tall and lean. He would have suspected that, after a week of speaking with people who knew Selik, someone would have put two and two together and at least figured out Spock was not Selik. As it was, his cover still seemed uncompromised.

It wasn't long until Spock was led to a room, a closet-sized office, that bore his false name on the door. Inside was a desk and chair, a wastepaper basket half full of crumpled papers, two baskets for in and out work, a laptop that sent wireless pages to a printer in the hall, and not much more.

"Now." Mr. Montegue started, pointing first towards the scratched laptop, it's think charger connected to a power outlet in a corner. "The Cube Lit. will send you a list of statistics and different views on how items were made. They've checked them over to make sure they line up with past Fleet talks, all you have to do is pick the ones that sound the best. You'll click on them and send them to the printer down they hall, where someone else will later collect them. If you find yourself without any new statistics to overview, you'll go down to the printer and take up a handful of papers from others to check over yourself."

As the man paused, withdrawing a white handkerchief to dab his ever shiny with sweat forehead, Spock gave a single nod. At least there would be some variety compared to the up-down of before. "I understand, sir."

"I'll check in on you in an hour to see how you're getting along." the portly man puffed, taking a shallow breath. "But I'm sure you'll be just fine, you were pretty good at it before your accident."

Spock again only gave a single nod, waiting just until the door to his closet-office closed to squeeze into the seat and start-up the computer. As he waited for the dial-up loading screen to finish warming up, he wondered just how the boss-man had managed to fit in here. The man's office must be quite large to fit his large frame. And, no, he wasn't just big-boned.

The screen turned white, a long list of made up stories awaiting his choosing. At first, he took the time to read all of them, trying to find some kind of clue or insight as to how he could help the people of this world overthrow their tyrannical Fleet. (Of course, he didn't say that out loud, the computer had a web-cam very similar to the ones the holo-visions had.)

_'Heavy rains in Vulcan cause vegetable crops to dwindle. Thanks to the Fleet's assistance, a force-field was erected above crop plantations and the harvest was kept relatively dry.'_ the first one read. _'Due to heavy loss during the start of the growing season, prices are expected to raise 5 percent.'_

The next one was in contrast to the first with the same outcome. _'Desert-like droughts leave the District Vulcan dry and inhospitable. Due to the abundance of sand and lack of good soil, vegetable crops suffer and prices are expected to rise 5.467 percent.'_

A third was in contrast to both. _'Vulcan farmers from our allied District are pleased with the overabundance of harvest brought in this year. Productions and fair distribution have been passed out between our neighboring borders, plentiful, and prices down a whole 10 percent.'_

Some dealt with other topics, such as what Andorica had been doing. Some said that all had been mysteriously quiet, the blue-skinned freaks planning something. Others stated that the Andorians had already launched attacks on both Ukay and Vulcan, prceision-point missiles launched and killing thousands in both places. Spock knew that to be false, the lack of destruction and death obvious. Another said truckloads of prisoners had been carted in for the past week, millions of 'Blue Bastards' being executed before jeering audiences - also false.

After reading fifteen or so of the fake reports and statistics, Spock began to click and choose at random. His preference and choices would have varied as much as his random clicks, the probability no different had he taken the time to look over each nonsensical, foolish report.

As promised, Mr. Montegue checked in on him five minutes past the next hour, praising Selik for his fine job choosing and rating statistics. Spock had only bobbed his head, filtering the man's honks in one pointed ear and out the other.

As the door clicked behind the obese man, Spock allowed himself a very human sigh. He looked towards his computer, chuck full of made-up stories waiting to be chosen and made into fact. It was a job that involved lying, a nauseating task in itself. As Spock's long fingers wrapped around the mouse, he almost wished it were the lever of the conveyor belt and it's perpetual up-down, up-down, up-downing. At least pressing boots together to squish the glue was an honest job, as menial and tedious as it was.

* * *

George was not in the cafeteria that afternoon. Spock had waited as long as he could, scanning the seated lunchers and waiting at the end of the line until all that remained of the noon break was ten minutes. Solitarily, he went to an empty table and picked at a moldy lettuce leaf until it was time to return to his farce of a job.

He returned to the desk, staring blankly at the screen. His long hand curled over the mouse, unmoving, eyes barely taking in the words dancing about. Lies screaming to be made truths, no truth in this world holding any kind of honesty. Was there anything Spock could believe, history or names or people or things? Was there really a Federation led by Admiral Pike, a small rebellion trying to break free from the chains of deceit they were born into? In Spock's world, babies were born naked and helpless. In this world, all were born with shakels about their hands and feet and a debt over their heads and lies whispered into their ears. Maybe there was a group...

But why would Fleet risk showing such a man on holo-vision once a week if Admiral Pike was alive, or even had existed in the first place? What if Pike had once been a member of Fleet, a long time ago when this Communistic group first reached out? What if, when he had died, the continued Fleet decided to make their own rebellion group, make a laughing stock of them, make their workers and followers hate this man and his supposed rebels just to keep them under their giant thumbs without any fear of revolt or revolution?

_"I didn't know Vulcan played the 'What If' game." Jim had grinned one evening over a game of chess as Spock voiced his concerns about a new planet to be explored. "Isn't that rather illogical, wondering what could have happened?"_

_"Of course." Spock had retorted, moving his pawn up another level. "While it is illogical to wonder what might have happened, it is entirely logical to prepare oneself for what might happen."_

_Jim frowned, moving a bishop closer to Spock's black knight. The piece wobbled slightly as it settled. "So it's logical to worry about things you don't even know will happen?"_

_Spock's own eyebrows furrowed as he slowly wrapped his fingers about a rook, forgoing it the next second for his own bishop. "Worry is an emotion, Captain. It is not worry as much as it is reflection and mental preparation."_

_"For what?" Jim moved one of his few remaining pawns without even looking. "It doesn't make sense to burn a bridge before you come to it. Wouldn't it make more _logical_ sense to take everything in stride."_

_Spock raised an eyebrow at the haphazard move, opening up Jim's knight for the taking. As the white horse joined a host of pawns Spock had stolen, he clasped his hands in his lap. "Perhaps with some situations, but others need in-depth thinking to fully tackle them in full efficiency."_

_Jim only hummed, again not looking as he moved a rook, and lost it. "I suppose..." At Spock's move, he grinned. "Have you been playing the 'What If' game with our here game of chess, thinking ahead and making moves according?"_

_"Of course." Spock gave a single nod. "It's only logical as this is a game that needs deep thinking."_

_"So, you don't think it's entirely _logical_ to just wing a game of chess?" Jim asked._

_Spock swallowed once, whetting his lips before answering. "No, Captain." he replied honestly. "I do not."_

_"It's Jim, Spock." the captain sighed, his eyes still shining as he clutched his queen. "Checkmate, Mr. Spock."_

_Spock blinked down at the board, seeing the clear path he had made for Jim's queen straight to his king by snatching up all of Jim's open pieces. His thinking two steps ahead had made him unobservant of the two steps behind they were currently at. Withholding a sigh, he reached up and tipped his king._

_"Something to think about tonight?" Jim beamed, sincerity in his tone if not in his face._

_Spock gave a single dip of the head. "Yes, Jim." he answered. "To meditate on."_

Spock sighed, shaking away the memory to click his mouse. He was uncertain if now was supposed to be the time for thinking far ahead, or taking everything in stride and handling it as it happened.

Perhaps... perhaps he was thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe, instead of thinking about what could or might happen, or what to do when the time came, he needed to think about himself. It wasn't what would others do in the future, what might happen, or what should he do now; it was what he _needed_ to do _now_. He had to plan the path, not simply walk down it.

Admiral Pike or not, this world needed to be released from its bonds of communism.

_It starts with one man. _Jim had said something along those lines to an alternate version of himself. Bearded Spock, Jim had called him. It took a whole throng to overthrow something, but it started with just one person getting the right idea at the right time and acting on it accordingly to start a revolution.

The mouse clicked beneath his hands again, and slowly, he painstakingly began to formulate his own path and plan.

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Spock, being a Vulcan, didn't start at the unexpected rapping at his doorway. Carefully, he withdrew from his mind and low-level meditation. Lately, his meditation schedule had been all out of sorts, his normal times unable to be fulfilled as the Fleet seemed to be withholding meditation from his fellow Vulcans, and he could only reach the deepest levels if he eschewed his few hours of sleep. Being half-Vulcan, he could go for long periods without any kind of REM. Being half-human, he was prone to fatigue and slept more frequently, if not a little longer, than a full-blooded Vulcan.

His eyes had been staring at the holo-vision, taking nothing of the nonsense in. The blank look on his open-eyed, unblinking face remained unchanged as he gracefully rose to his feet. He strode to the door in three normal steps, and closed one eye to look through the peep-hole. Perhaps a human action, seeing as the door had no lock and any kind of crook or evil-doer could simply walk in, but it was always best to err on the caution.

A familiar crop of blonde greeted him, and he quickly grasped the handle, pushed it in, twisted, and pulled. The door opened with a swollen, creaking _pop!_, revealing a smiling face and pearly, white teeth.

"Hey, Spock." George Kirk greeted warmly, motioning towards the doorway. "Can I come in?"

Wordless, Spock stepped aside, closing the door behind him with a forceful push. It popped back into place. He only had to wait a moment, silence to any Kirk more than enough permission to speak.

"I came to apologize." George said, eyes glancing about the orderly rooms he had seen once before in simple observation. "I had planned on coming down to the cafeteria during break, but I didn't get one today."

Spock only gave a single incline of his head. "No apology is necessary. The circumstances were obviously out of your control."

George only blinked a moment, perhaps unused to talking to a Vulcan or simply unused to being answered and used to the sound of his own voice jabbering away. His momentary shock vanished, going back to his ever-present smile. "I'm glad you understand. It turns out, some ass connected to the Federation hacked into our data-bases and changed some of our history. It made Fleet look _wrong_." The simple line was bit out with such venom Spock was absolutely certain it left a bitter aftertaste in George's mouth. "It took a whole floor of us to go over every single document, pamphlet, movie, comic book, _anything_ connected to this topic and change it back."

_Or,_ Spock's mind supplied easily, _Fleet isn't as infallible as it believes and made a mistake._

"I see." he answered instead. He paused a moment, wetting his lips. "What do you do with all the old, faulty manuscripts?" he asked. "Recycle them?"

"More like incinerate." George snorted. "We shove all the books or PADDs or disks into a tube connected to all of our desks, and it's sent to a this huge incinerator beneath Ukay. We were lucky that this mistake was caught before we sent out all those scripts for distribution." He stated seriously. "If we had sent it out and found out afterwards, Controls would go on raids to find all the bad media."

Spock's heart rate increased slightly before he was able to control it once more. If Fleet slipped up big enough, forcing a raid, there was no doubt Selik's journal would be found. And, if Selik's journal was found, Spock would be either found out or mistaken as the writer and tried either way at the Order.

"Quite a stroke of luck." he replied in agreement before he could catch himself. _Luck? Luck is illogical._ He chastised himself.

George, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. "You bet it is." he said. "Damn Federation. Everything's always their fault." He continued on. "They're in cahoots with the Andorians, I tell ya."

"I thought you said there was no Federation." Spock stated carefully. "You believed them to be eradicated and simply used as a symbol."

George shrugged. "Who cares if they are or not? What matters is that we need to take care of those slimy bastards, string 'em up by their necks or line them all up and-"

Perhaps being alone so long, nearly a week and a half by this world's standards and probably the same by his own, his shields had weakened. The Moments Hate broadcasted weekly had yet to happen again, but lack of decent meditation left him vulnerable to the next wave of overpowering Hate yet to come. Maybe, without Dr. McCoy to tease him about doing something somewhat human, and no Jim to do the same, he had allowed himself to slip into bad habits and no longer tried his hardest to be the Perfect Vulcan.

Whatever the reason, something snapped. He turned on his heels, wary of what he did before the holo-vision, and stormed into his room. He didn't bother closing the door, knowing that, like his Jim, it would do nothing to deter a Kirk.

And, just as Spock had known, George entered moments later. "Is something wrong?" he asked lowly. "You look upset? Feds get to you that much?"

George started visibly as the bedroom door slammed behind him, Spock's hand on the cool wood. The lightless room was dim, the black-out curtains hanging limply over the smog-filled outdoors.

Spock had just about had enough of all of this. It was absolutely disgusting, like the German Nazis blaming and murdering the Jews. Dictators like Hitler and Stalin flooded his mind, taking the faces of each one of these _perfect_ Fleet members. A Fascist peoples, and not one person was trying to stop it and rise above the communism.

Selik, the real one Spock had no doubt was dead, had written something in his diary that was just perfect for any situation, especially this one. Again and again, words so simple yet the meaning was so misunderstood by the one writing them from simple lack of knowledge. How could he understand with no one to show him the right way? A moral compass was not enough, those few words a good starting point but only that. The words were point A, and all point A's had a point B, one simply needed to find it.

_"I don't belive in no-win scenarios." _Jim's voiced edged him on.

'_DOWN WITH FLEET! DOWN WITH FLEET! DOWN WITH FLEET'_ the words had been chanted onto paper, a life mantra never to be spoken aloud by the tongue connected to the body of the hand that wrote it.

George froze, eyes wide with fear as his face paled three different shades of white. "W-what did you say?" he hoarsely whispered.

Spock's own voice was a mere whisper as well, and barely louder as he repeated. "Down with Fleet."

"S-Spock." George gasped, swallowing thickly. A nervous chuckle escaped his dry, parted lips. "Selik, comrade. You're-you're sick, I'm sure you don't mean-"

"I do." Spock turned, face emotionless and ferociously calm as his eyes bore into the endless blue of the Kirk's. "I mean every word."

"But-"

"Are you not tired of the lies?" Spock demanded lowly, voice dipping to levels the holo-vision wire hopefully couldn't pick up on. _Let it, _his human side foolishly dared, _let them try to take me_. "The lies Fleet creates every single day, changing them just as often. Do you not yearn for truth, free will, freedom of speech, and privacy?"

Every slowly spoken word made George turn a new shade of eggshell. "You're Federation. You-you're with Pike!"

There was no way the bug hadn't picked up George's tone, but Spock couldn't find it within himself to care. "No." he responded. _At least,_ his Vulcan side piped up, _not of this world._ "I am not with your Admiral Pike nor your Federation. I simply believe in truth and freedom." he paused just a moment, taking in the way George trembled in his work boots and rubbed his sweaty fingers. "As you once stated, there may very well be no Federation or Admiral Pike. But, there can always be rebels." Spock's eyes narrowed. "There needs to be a _revolution_."

"You're insane." George snapped, jerking himself from his frozen stance to lunge at the door. He didn't account for Vulcan reflexes, however, and the fact Spock was standing next to said door. His hand was swatted away from the doorknob, throbbing as he pulled it back and held the stinging wrist.

"There must be some part of you that finds this bondage undesirable." Spock stated severely, voice still below normal speaking level. "Some human hatred of slavery and hunger for knowledge. _Real_ knowledge." he cleared. "Do you never wonder what might have been before the Fleet?"

"There was _nothing_ before the Fleet." George ground, eyeing the doorknob the way a starving man did a laid table. "The Fleet was and always will be."

Had Spock been human, or allowed himself more emotions than the strong irritation he had at the moment, he might have laughed. "So say the Fleet?" he asked dryly. "Another quote from your Fleet-printed Bible?"

"There is no Bible." George huffed. "It's simple common sense."

"Perhaps, then," Spock took a step towards the men, George matching him and stepping back, "it is time for uncommon sense."

George blinked stupidly, looking at Spock as if he were insane. Perhaps he was, maybe his time away from the ship was adversely affecting him and he needed the Kirk from his world to put him back on track. Somewhere, though, in the back of his head or deep in his side, he knew Jim wouldn't have stopped him. He would have goaded him on, taking a large stick to poke him to keep going.

"Think for yourself." Spock dared. "Imagine something entirely opposite of what Fleet has been telling you. A world run by an elected government, elected by the people wishing to be kept in line. A home with no Fleet wires or listening devices, where history is what happened instead of what someone wanted it to be, and..." his voice trailed off a moment, almost unsure as to what he needed to say next. "And clothing that wasn't the same as the next."

As lame as it sounded, it wasn't that far from the truth. George wore the same 'leisure' clothing Spock was, colors and everything down to the thread count in each sock exactly the same. It was a uniform that wasn't a uniform, a military suit for a civilian.

George's breathing had picked up, bullets of cold sweat beading up along his hairline. His pupils had dilated, eyes wide, and hands shaking as he shook his head back and forth. "Stop it." his voice was weak, trembling as much as his body was. "Please, I-"

"Where your son could live a life all his own, growing up and becoming whatever he wanted to be." Children were always such a touchy subject to parents. Perhaps Samuel Kirk was just the button Spock needed to push.

"Sam can be whatever he wants to be." George snarled, the button pushed and stuck fast.

"As long as the Fleet agrees and it is within one of the four Cubes." Spock finished with half a nod. "Is that the life you want your son to grow up in? One where his entire life is dictated to him, from his birth to his death? It's already started, he might already be too far gone."

"Sam's a good boy." George argued back, feebly. "Top in his Squad."

Spock nodded again. "A Squadron taught by Fleet members with curriculum written by other Fleet members that must go through the briefing of Fleet readers before being used on your children." he said. "Without Fleet, Sam could have a brother. You and your wife could have had another child. Another son."

George swallowed thickly, looking for all the world he might be sick. "H-how would you know that?"

Spock didn't reply for a moment, eyes searching the older Kirk's. "Because I do." was all he could answer when he did speak. "But, isn't that the life you would desire for your own child? Your wife? Yourself?"

"Crazy." George shook his head, shakily reaching for the doorknob again. "You're crazy."

The man's fingers brushed the cool brass of the doorknob before being crushed in the heavy grip of a half-blooded Vulcan. He turned, wide-eyed, at his kidnapper. There was so much more Spock needed to say, so much George needed to know, but the man was scared. He was petrified of what Spock needed to say, and rightfully so. Even now there might be Control workers rushing to their apartments, ready to burst in at any second and bring them in for high treason.

With a withheld sigh, Spock wordlessly released the man's hand. George started back with a tremor, pausing only a moment to look over the insane Vulcan before grabbing the door handle and fleeing for his life. The front door slammed shut, banging back open as the stuck hinge refused to close properly, and George didn't care. Spock looked at the wall of the empty hallway after the retreated path of the Kirk. It was only a matter of time before he was turned in or found out.

The countdown started in Spock's mind, down to the very fraction of a second.

* * *

Fingers steepled before his pursed lips, Spock sat in the very deepest brown thought. His eyes were open yet unseeing, the early stages of meditation wrapping their dreamy tendrils around his mind.

He wondered if he had broken the number one rule of all of Starfleet, his own, that is. The Prime Directive - to honor a planet's traditions and rituals; to take part of them, as far as safety would allow and then some; to keep with their culture; and to never, ever get involved. The No-Interference Policy - if someone was going to get hurt, if one tribe was about to kill a different tribe, or if a single person was being hazed in the streets, if they were not ordered or simply unknown to the new world, they were to merge with the background and do nothing.

It was sickening, at times, but Starfleet manuals only went so far. There were no section on what to do were you sucked into a parallel universe that was Communistic or evil. Captain Kirk had tried to start a revolution with his counterpart in the Mirror universe, could not Spock do the same here? Technically, this was the Planet Earth, and in his universe the Planet Earth was free. Earth of his world was also a Federation Planet, meaning they knew and lived with aliens of other worlds so interference was allowed.

If he stretched the rules enough, he wasn't doing anything wrong at all. Vulcan, Andorica (by a very long stretch), and Earth were all Federation Planets.

_No,_ he decided at long last,_ I'm not doing anything wrong._

He allowed himself half a sigh, his heart feeling illogically heavy in his side and his mind surprisingly turmoils. It was time for him to head to the Cube of Distribution to choose which lies were best for publication and printing. _All in a day's work._

He had barely stepped out into the hallway when a dusty blonde crop of hair stopped him. Dim highlight of auburn speckled the mainly yellow head, and his eyes were a unmistakenable blue.

"You are George Kirk's son." Spock stated as soon as he had stopped, face to face with Jim's older brother of another world.

Those sharp, icy blue eyes bore into his eyes and burned his skin. They narrowed into crescents, an indignant sniff as the youth flicked his nose with his thumb. "Name's Sam." he muttered clearly.

Spock gave a single dip of his head. "Your father has spoken often, and fondly, of you, Samuel."

"Sam." the teenager bit out again. "Not Samuel."

"My apologies." Spock quickly added. It seemed Jim of his world had inherited his loathe of full names and titles from his elder brother. _Jim, Spock, it's Jim. _The young man stood still, continuing his glaring at the taller Vulcan. "Is there something I may do for you?"

Sam didn't answer, directly. "Did ya know I follow my dad near everywhere he goes?" he asked snottily. "Except for work, I tail him all over, he just doesn't know it yet." He allowed that to sink in a moment. "That's why I'm top in Squad. Turned in more Feds than any other kid my age."

That was what the Fleet Squadron was? Not just the evil Boyscouts Spock had imagined, but military boot camp to challenge these children to be the best Fleet possible? No wonder the few children Spock had seen walking - patrolling, now that he thought of it - the streets had been warily glanced at by the adults. An unnatural fear of their own children, petrified that their own son or daughter might turn them in for something they did or did not to.

Spock did not allow his own fear to show, too well-trained as a Vulcan to slip up that much. "A most interesting activity." he stated. "Is there nothing better to occupy your time with?"

"Not that I can think of." Sam scowled. "I heard ya talkin' the other day. I saw my dad leave, real scared. He ain't the one I'm worried about." he stated. "You, on the other hand..."

Spock remained silent, easily keeping his eyes locked with the younger male's even as his heart picked up a few beats. He would call Sam's bluff knowing full and well it wasn't a bluff.

"I've already turned you in." the boy said proudly. "It's only a matter of time now."

The boy smiled, the smirk of a psychopath more than the grin of a youth. Spock turned on his heels, not running away, but picking his battles. He was going to be late for his shift, not that it mattered if he was already a dead man.

_'I may still breathe and think and move and talk and exist, but I am dead.' _Selik had written, and now it made sense.

He quickly stepped down the narrow, candy-wrapper, bug leg ridden stairwell.

"It's only a matter of time!" echoed off the walls around him, like grabbing hands reaching for his arms and legs to trap and ensnare him.

He wasn't running, but he couldn't get out the front door fast enough.

* * *

Author's Note- I apologize for yet, again, another short chapter. I had to make it stop there or the next part wouldn't look right. Besides, next chapter wouldn't merge well with this one.

Not much to say on this one. We finally meet Sam, and he's a jerk. Sorry to anyone who liked him... In _1984_, parents were told to love their children and children were taught to be absolute terrors. They were to spy, to eavesdrop, to turn in, to blame their parents for things they did not do to turn them in.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

_'Under the spreading chestnut tree_

_I sold you and you sold me:_

_And there they lie, and here lie we,_

_Under the spreading chestnut tree.' George Orwell _1984_. _

* * *

The day went like any other normal day. He worked on his old box computer, randomly clicking lies for this world to read and take as truth, and ignoring the pandering praises of Mr. Montegue.

The lunch hour rang, and he silently took his place in line for the inedible salad and glass of soda water, looking about for the familiar blonde head. He found it, George turning around and catching his eye. The acknowledgment lasted only a moment, fear clouding the endless blue. George quickly turned, hunched over his stew and resuming a his conversation with a brown-haired man. Spock walked on until he came across a table for one and sat down. He hadn't been this alone since his Academy days, just after defying his father and the Vulcan Science Academy. Sitting alone brought up a different memory, too.

_The salad was crisp and green, whole cherry tomatoes and crunchy carrots spotted throughout. A small helping of croutons were nestled on top a bed of iceberg lettuce, and, in the spirit of celebration, he had indulged in one of his mother's favorite dressings he had found he had a taste for: buttermilk ranch._

_His standard spork poked idly at the vegetable masterpiece, stabbing first a tomato and then a carrot. Both were slowly eaten, and then a crouton stabbed. Of course, the spiced piece of stale bread would crumble beneath the thick, stubby prongs of his fork and nearly disintegrate. He scooped up the white coated pieces, tasting them as well._

_It was no different on a starship as it was teaching at Starfleet Academy. It had only been a few month's layover, his former Captain Pike becoming upgraded to Admiral and some newer, younger captain taking his place. One Kirk, James T. James Tiberius Kirk, son of George and Winona, younger brother to Samuel Kirk, survivor of Tarsis IV, and the youngest cadet to ever become a Starship Captain._

_Spock had no idea what had compelled him to sign his name on the digital paper, stating he wanted to serve another five years to the decade plus he had already served. The fact that he had no home to return to on Vulcan nor Earth, _Enterprise_ the only home he had ever felt accepted on, had probably been a part of it. Admiral Pike had agreed, placing a hand on Spock's back as he hesitantly confided in the older man his desire to serve again._

_"What's here for you?" Pike had asked rhetorically, answering himself anyways. "An apartment somewhere in the city that you'll have to pay for, a bunch of students that'll think they know better than you, and a teachers' lounge. But space?" he continued, "Being able to study the stars, further than even we saw? Red Alerts and Klingons, discovery and danger. Plus," he added with a smile, "your bedrooms paid for by the Federation."_

_He speared a few shards of shredded lettuce, lifting them next to his mouth. The replicator had quite liberally smeared on the ranch dressing, not that he was complaining._

_Pike had been the only one to see him off, well wishes and a smile. It was an upgrade before his first mission under Pike and Number One, where he had simply walked aboard without looking back. Spock had paused, turning around, eyes catching the white flash of Pike's grin. The man wore Admiral red, getting nervous looks from greenhorn cadets hugging their parents and siblings and friends good-bye. Spock's hand had fingered the only bag he held, a small carry-on duffel bag so light he almost didn't even need to use the shoulder strap._

_He didn't start, merely glancing up as a body suddenly came into view._

_"I couldn't help but notice," the blonde man started, the mustard colored shirt similar to Spock's own doing nothing for his complexion, "that you're eating alone."_

_Spock raised an eyebrow, eyeing the man's tray of a chicken sandwich and coffee. "I always eat alone." he stated. It was fact. He - Spock of Vulcan, son of Sarek of the lineage of Surak - always ate alone. _

_"But do you prefer it?" James T. Kirk asked, waiting eagerly for an answer. Spock gave him none, other than to carefully consume another cherry tomato. The man sighed. "Alright, fine. Be like that." He gestured with a single finger towards an empty chair. "Is this seat taken?"_

_"Not at the moment." Spock replied dryly, entirely certain that it would be filled within the next five point one six seconds._

_He was correct, Jim did sit down, but he was off by one second. The muscular blonde slid back the chair with his foot, setting his tray down and sitting in the seat in one, fluid motion. "My name's Jim." _

_"I am quite aware of your name, Captain." Spock deadpanned, not even looking up from his salad."You are James T. Kirk, and-"_

_"No." the new captain shook his head, picking up the sandwich and barbariaclly ripping it in half. "It's Jim. Captain when we're on duty, and _no one_ calls me James except my mother and the admiralty, and both for the same reason."_

_Spock paused a moment, swallowing the small bit of carrot in his mouth. What could the higher-ups of Starfleet have in common with this man's mother? "What would that reason be?" he asked, taking the carefully laid bait before him._

_Jim smiled, his hand rubbing his coffee cup's handle. He chuckled. "When I'm in trouble." Jim paused, munching his sandwich a moment before speaking again. "Hey, do you play chess?"_

Unlike the salad aboard the ship, while odd and sometimes fuzzy coming from a replicator, it was at least edible. Today's greens were especially coated in the cooking oil of the kitchen, and he pushed it aside for the soda water. Having had to eat this despicable food for so long, he'd learned to save the drink until he could stand the taste of greasy, wet vegetables no more and have the carbonated water ease his stomach.

He didn't start as a hand tapped his shoulder, too small to be that of George's or his Captain's finally come for him. He turned, eyes first sweeping over white-blonde hair tightly pulled back into a ponytail and biting hazel-green eyes boring into him. The woman, her tight blue uniform and sweeping scarlet sash and hair scrunchie hanging down her leg and shoulder, gave him no time to speak.

"You need to come with us." her voice was as cold and cruel as Spock had imagined it to be. She flicked her head towards the hallway leading into one of the other four cubes.

"You are Control." Spock stated calmly.

The woman didn't answer directly, but she didn't deny either. "And you are not who you say you are."

He would have been yanked from his seat had he not risen on his own, walking a step before the young woman and allowing himself to be led towards the hall. He caught George's eye, not returning the glance, but was aware as the man stared at him wide-eyed and guilt ridden. It appeared Sam Kirk was not the only one to call in the authorities.

No matter, this confrontation would have happened sooner or later. His booted feet fell heavily upon the white, laminated floor, and the harsh lights above glared off of the whitewashed walls. A single double-door was at the end of the hall, a buzzer ringing out as one side clicked open and swung out. The woman shoved his shoulder with the butt end of a small hand pistol she had withdrawn from somewhere in her clothing, and Spock stumbled into a pitch black room. The door swung closed again, a lock engaging, leaving the Vulcan alone in the darkness.

* * *

Had he been a full-blooded human, he might have been afraid. He might have panicked and pounded on the door, shouting for somebody to let him or at least turn on a light. He would not know the time or how long he had sat there, cross-legged, on the cold cement floor (six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-four second).

Being as his Vulcan blood was a dominant gene - ("_Spock, 51 percent Vulcan isn't exactly that big a variation."_) - he didn't do any of those things listed above. Instead, he took the time to go into as deep a meditation as he dared, and waited for the click of the lock disengaging.

When it finally came, he merely withdrew from his mind enough to once again take in full awareness of his surroundings, and remained still.

A light flicked on above him, the nearly burned out filament buzzing and humming over his head. Footsteps sounded softly around him, one slowly circling him if the steady _thud-thunk, thud-thunk, thud-thunk _was anything to go by. He heard the breathing of two armed guards switching the safety off of their weapons at the door, and there were probably more down the hall. While he could probably pinch the man circling him and deal with the two at the door, he would most likely be overtaken by the guards up the hall. No, a Vulcan Neck Pinch would not get him out of this pinch - pun somewhat intended.

"Vulcan." a masculine voice barked, Spock simply opening his eyes. The man was older and white haired, thick with muscles despite his age of near sixty. His face was cold, long, and stern, and a thin pair of spectacles hung off of his long, straight nose. "You will give your name and social security."

Had Jim been in his place, he knew the man would have grinned from his Indian-pose on the floor. He thanked his eidetic memory, a single glance at his hospital papers burned into his mind. "_S'chn T'gai Selik cha Skon_, security number 1239-765-"

"Stop!" the man shouted, his green eyes narrowing at the Vulcan. "That name does not exist."

"Not anymore." Spock added, ignoring the man's heated glare and clenched fist. "I assume you eradicated the real Selik."

"Selik never existed-"

"But yet I was able to use his name long after he was gone." Spock finished. "So, either your system is not as tight as you believe it to be, or there was a Selik."

The man's heated glare become hotter then the two suns of Vulcan. "Perhaps there was a 'Selik' once." he seemed to growl each word like a rabid dog, or a hungry _le-matra_. "But he is no more. Now," he demanded, barking orders much like _I-Chaya _had when Spock took too long with his dinner, "your name and social security."

"_S'chn T'gai Spock cha Sarek_." Spock replied just as easily as the faux name. "And I have no social security in this world."

The man seem to belive him, both remaining statue still and giving a nod of approval at the same time. "My name," he said slowly, as if speaking to one who was mentally handicapped, "is unimportant. If you must address me, it will be as Master."

Spock merely lifted an eyebrow, a visible sign of disrespect. Or, as Jim would have put it: 'As if.'

"You, like all others we bring here for rehabilitation, think the same. You do not belive that you will ever call me Master, that you are stronger than those before you, that you will never break." His eyes met Spock's, eyes as electric green as George's were blue. "And, like all those before, you are _wrong_. You are not the first Vulcan to enter rehabilitation, and you most certainly will not be the last."

"What will you do to me?" Spock asked as dryly as he could, he might have even gone as far as swiping his fingernails across his shirt had he not been holding such a firm rein on his control. "Will you give me over to the Cube of Order?"

A cold, cynical smile tugged at the tight ends of the man's tight lips. "Common Fleet belive that it is the Cube of Order that changes and rips confessions from rebels, but it is not. The Cube of Order is nothing more than a glorified holo-vision program. The Cube of Control is where we break wills to suit our needs."

"And kill and erase those that do not meet up to your standards." Spock was quick to add.

The scowl deepened once again. "All who oppose Fleet die in the end, and their very existence eradicated from history. You, Spock-son-of-Sarek, will be no different. Of course," the man continued, "there are few that are released for a time, some so totally converted that it would be a waste to simply kill them instantly. But, in the end, all are killed and erased."

"Most incontinent." Spock murmured, voice loud in the surprisingly small walls of his cell. How would his Captain find him if he was totally erased from history? No matter, Jim had come through with even worse odds.

"More than you know." 'Master' replied. "Yet. Get up, Vulcan. Your rehabilitation begins."

It would be foolish to procrastinate, to ask just what the man meant by 'rehabilitation.' It was obvious - blatantly obvious and crystal clear. They were going to try and change Spock into their poster boy of Fleet regulations. He was uncertain as to how they would proceed, but of one thing Spock was certain.

It was going to be most unpleasant.

* * *

A door opened, much like the room to the black, empty cell Spock had sat in for hours on end. But, unlike the room that had just barely fit both him and the man in charge of the punishments, this room was both large and spacious. It reminded Spock of an ancient NASA hangar, just shrunken down enough for typical equipment and a single chair outfitted with a deep, hollow bowl for the head to rest back in.

"Sit." the man ordered, very much like an owner commanding a dog or a master to a slave. "And place your arms on the rests."

Spock obeyed, stalling just long enough to give the chair a good once-over before resting his rear in it. It seemed like a crude combination of the rehabilitation, mental therapy seats Jim had watched a man be subject to, and a twenty-first century hair salon style hair-dryer. It was missing a large, colander shaped bowl to rest over his hair, though.

As soon as his arms had touched the cold metal of the armrests, a ratcheting clanck like the sound of a pulled chain across a bar rang out. Heavy straps, much stronger than anything McCoy could ever hold him down with, slapped over his wrists and the crock of his elbow. Similar binds strapped themselves around his legs, pulling them flush against the chair. The Torturer, as Spock would not call him Master, stepped forward and withdrew twin diodes from a section on both sides of the head divit and attached them to the sides of Spock's forehead. A tiny prickling of pins poked him in the temples, and an electric surge buzzed around the outside of his brain.

"Being as you are Vulcan and a logical and emotionally controled species, I will not apply the neck straps." the Torturer said, as if it were the kindest of indulgences he could give. "But, any attempt to remove the diodes from your head, be it accident or purposeful, will both result in pain and further restriction. Is that understood?"

"Understood." Spock murmured sullenly.

The man gave a single nod, pushing his glasses back with a single finger. "Very good."

No further directions nor explanations were given, the man stepping back besides a single console monitor. Another man, of tannish-yellow skin, sat in a rolling chair at the controls, a long, white lab coat hanging near the floor. Not a word was spoken, perhaps a nod, but if there was Spock had missed it.

And for good reason, the electrical buzz around his mind became a surge of lightning, a two-way current of electricity flowing through his brain and back again. He had been subject to many mind melds, both harsh and kind and gentle, both the cold touch of a doctor and the gentle brush against his mind of his father. But with all his experience, there was no comparison to this.

The pain was excruciating, a dull term used to explain the deep throbbing, aching, tearing of a computer sweeping through his mind and shields as if he were nothing more then basic coding. Ideas and thoughts and memories he hadn't seen in years, neatly tucked away for later reflection that never came.

_Spock was four years old, feverish and curled up in his mother's lap as she slowly rocked him in her own mother's rocking chair. A book full of whimsical pictures danced before his sunken eyes, words of a bouncy rhythm being read aloud._

_"You have a brain in your head and feet in your shoes, you can go in any direction you choose."_

What a simple book, yet strong an idea. That was all these people needed, these people of District this and that. A simple story with the right morals and ethics to guide them along.

Spock's teeth grit involuntarily as a sharp surge swam through his entire body, seizing once before falling horribly lax. He floundered, nearly panicking as he lost his train of thought and found he could not recall it at all.

Something about iambic pentameter, perhaps?

The computer-melding machine dove deeper. More about his mother.

_It was late, but as always, his mother read him a chapter from their favorite story. His father did not condone such books, but Spock was only five and his mother claimed it was a classic._

_"Contrariwise," her voice changed according to the character, "if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't! That's logic." she smiled._

Where had he heard that before? That quote that his father loathed so much. He could see her sitting there, kneeling against the side of his bed so that he could see the sketchy, black and white pictures. He could see the words, see the pages, but no title or author's name. It did, however, bring up a different memory.

_"I'm Tweedledee, he's Tweedledumb!"_

_"Two spacemen marching to a drum."_

He tried to cut the rest of it off, but couldn't. He hated that memory, the time he had almost hurt his Captain and lost control of his emotions. Or, maybe he had almost hurt the Doctor. McCoy had been there, too... hadn't he?

A gasp was torn from his throat, the frantic surging suddenly breaking off back into that warm, leering buzz around his mind. A large frame was looming to his side, and Spock found he had only the energy to shift his eyes to look at the man in glasses.

"That has been your first lesson." the man stated gravely. "For any stray, wayward thoughts against Fleet, you will be punished with pain."

Spock was Vulcan, he could handle pain better than any human.

The man above him smiled, eyes not entirely focused on Spock for a moment. "You forget, Vulcan, that you are still connected to our computers. We can read your every thought, we can see into your past, and even unlock thoughts you had hidden away. You belive that, due to half of your heritage, you are above our means. You are _not_." he snapped harshly. "You will be broken, whether it takes seven days or seven years, you will break."

Spock's next thought wasn't exactly nice, and he gasped sharply as his body seized again. Muscles strained to their limits, his wrists and legs pushed against their restraints to no avail and against his wishes. The pain increased, turning his body into one, large, electrical transformer. He was nothing but a host for the energy, the two-way electricity trying to fry him out from his very nerves.

As the electrocution subsided, breath returning to his lungs as fast as he could pull them in, everything he had forgotten came flooding back to him.

"You haven't changed anything." Spock's voice was just barely more than a whisper, a strong one, but he didn't dare try anything louder. "I still know that you are wrong. I still remember Selik and my mother and captain."

"The moments of forgetfulness we cause are brief," the man agreed with a nod, "but they build up in time. My dear Spock," he used a tone of voice suited best for a friend, using his name for the first time, "we do not wish to brainwash you, as you so believed. We only wish to help you understand our ways, and convert you properly. In time, you will break, but that will be your own fault. You will learn to control your own thoughts."

Spock's brow creased, chest still panting as he tried to pull in his fragmented mental shields and control. "And if I do not?"

The man looked at him strangely, his oval glasses glinting in the harsh lighting all around. "There is no answer to that question. You _will_ break."

_We'll see_. Crossed Spock's mind involuntarily. The man only chuckled, a deep, back of the throat laugh that sounded rather much like a bullfrog croaking. The Torturer turned back to the man in the lab coat, giving another nod.

Spock's head fell back as the electricity surged back into his head, eyes going dark as he was forced to live every thought he had ever gone through.

* * *

He awoke to blackness. For a brief, fleeting moment, he thought himself back in orbit about the planet Deneva. Pain racked his body, so strong that even he was weakening and loosing his ability to block it, and he was blinded.

Or, perhaps that was only because that horrible mission had been the last memory pulled from the neat pockets of his brain before he lost consciousness. He was back in the dark cell, his back laying against some sort of metal board acting as a bed. He thought that it might be raised above the floor, but hadn't the energy to swing his legs down and see.

He closed his eyes, blackness surrounding either way.

* * *

"You belive you are of another world, another timeline." his voice droned on like a computer's or hypnotist's. "You believe that there is a ship, the _Enterprise_, and a man there who will save you. Do you remember this man's name?"

"Captain James T. Kirk." Spock replied without fear. He was tied down to the electrocution, mind-reading machine and the diodes were pinned into the temples of his head. The threat of pain and torture loomed overhead like a dark storm cloud. What was there for him to fear?

"This man." the Torturer continued, voice low and monotonous. "This captain, your world, the ship; they do not exist."

Spock turned his head, unable to move any other part of his body. An arching eyebrow slid up his face, disappearing into the thick bangs almost reaching his eyes. Just when had his hair become so long? He could have sworn it was neatly cut just awhile ago. No matter. "They are real."

The Torturer shook his head. "They never existed. You, Spock of Vulcan, are ill and depraved in the mind. You escaped your District's asylum, sneaking through the boarders of Ukay and Vulcan to sabotage our work. You belive yourself to be a member of the Federation - a group you made up while held within your padded cell."

"Fleet of this world invented the Federation." Spock countered harshly. "They invented it through communism and suppression and-" His teeth clenched as a surge of electricity flew through his body, starting at his head. It started as quickly as it came, leaving him weak, panting, and exhausted.

The white-haired, spectacled man seated next to him on a backless, rolling stool sighed. "You are proving very difficult to train, Vulcan. The madness has penetrated deep into your brain, poisoning your every thought. We are trying to help you, to fix what has been broken."

Spock's eyebrow's furrowed. "I'm not broken." was all he could manage while still trying to catch his breath.

"But you are." Torturer said softly. "And slow, mentally. Perhaps if we made this easier to start. Let us try this." As he finished speaking, he lifted is right hand with all but his thumb exposed. "Vulcan, how many fingers do you see?"

"Four." Electricity surged through him again, this time before he himself had even finished speaking, and he bit his tongue as his jaw reflexively clenched. As he came to, he tasted the salty, metallic tang of copper.

The Torturer had remained unmoved, waiting for Spock to regain himself. "There are five fingers, Vulcan. Count them - five fingers." He wiggled the four digits in the air. "I am holding five fingers."

"What?" It was all he could gasp, the stupidity so strong his sore mind could not wrap around it.

The hand fell into the spectacled man's lap, Torturer sighing. "Perhaps you are too tired for this today, Vulcan. You will be taken to a cell to rest."

* * *

The cell was not the same room Spock had been taken to after each of his supposed _lessons_. That room was midnight black and nothing more than four walls, a door, a ceiling, and a floor. It was chilly, just prickling his skin enough to cause discomfort but never enough to shiver. It was cold, but comforting. It was away from the white-haired, glasses-wearing man and his electrocution chair and crazy, hypnotic words.

This cell hummed with a force field, spread out just in front of the door. It looked like the brig of any standard starship, a padded birth and some room to pace. He waited for the guardsman to take down the field before stepping in, no pushing needed. There was no point in trying to escape, yet. There were too many guards and he was too weak, a fact he loathed. Besides, where would he run to? He did not know if there were any forests or abandoned buildings that he could stay in, away from the prying webcams of Fleet. Birds could be outfitted with wires and deer with tracking devices for all he knew.

He had been sitting for some time, an hour and a half, when familiar footsteps came closer. It was the Torturer, holding in his hands a circular loaf of bread. It was evenly browned with a criss-cross on the very top, rounded and perfectly pie shaped. Spock could see the steam rising from the warm loaf, and suddenly discovered himself to be ravenously hungry.

The Torturer seemed to know his very thought, even away from his mind-reading machine. "You are hungry, Vulcan?" he asked, squeezing the plump loaf lightly. Spock didn't answer, eyes on the bread. The Torturer continued, "It would be justified as you have not eaten of drunken in nearly five months."

Now Spock did react, lifting an eyebrow. A full-blooded Vulcan could go for long periods of time without food or water, but not _that_ long. He looked down, staring at his fingers that were bonier than normal and touching a hollow cheek. He brushed a finger through his hair, hanging just below his ears and his bangs stretching for his eyes. He looked up, brown eyes meeting with the green of the other man.

"It is the machine that keeps you alive." the Torturer stated in a friendly tone. It was as if having a conversation with a close buddy, chatting about common interests. "An interesting bit of equipment, I tell you. When connected to it, it creates a type of suspended animation without really putting the body into a comatose state. You have barely aged your time here, no more than a week or two if all the hours are counted up. But, the lesser function of your body, breathing, your heart, even simple growth such as your hair and fingernails continue on."

Spock's trademark eyebrow slid up, this time hidden beneath the heavy bangs.

The green-eyed man still seemed to understand, reaching a hand to deactivate the force-field locking Spock within. "You can trust me on the stretch of time, Vulcan. I would not change that on you."

While Spock was uncertain, any doubt or concern fled his mind as the man bent down and placed the bread on the floor. The field was reactivated, the man safely back on the other side.

"Well, go on, Vulcan." the Torturer motioned towards the hot-crossed bun. He rolled his eyes, again understanding without words. "I understand we told you that we will kill you, but not until you worship Fleet the way you should. We want you dead thanking us for killing you after being such a bad role model to your fellow Fleet members. And, we have never poisoned a living soul." The man raised a hand in promise. "We disperse the molecules with a gun fired from behind. You will never even know you had died."

Hesitantly, Spock crouched and reached for the bread. It was so very warm, and the scent penetrated every nook and cranny of the prison cell. He broke a large chunk off, and bit into it. It was a very sweet loaf, and so very good after lengthy periods of disgusting salads and starvation - if he really had been without food or water for so long. He ripped off another piece, and another, eating it as fast as his Vulcan pride would allow. The loaf was devoured all too soon, and he had to restrain himself from licking the crumbs off of his fingers.

"You must be thirsty, Vulcan." the Feeder stated, Torturer unfitting now that he was being kind. He reached for a button on the wall, a panel lifting somewhere within the room Spock was contained.

He turned towards the left, a piece of the wall sliding up like a door in sickbay. Inside were four glass bottles, each one containing some kind of clear liquid.

The Feeder smiled. "There are five glasses there to quench your thirst, Vulcan. They will be all you will be allowed at this time, so ration wisely. Perhaps," he added with a meaning smile, "you will even learn something from them."

No, Torturer was a _very _fitting term. Spock sank onto the side of the hanging bed, any thirst he had beforehand turning very suddenly into nausea.

* * *

Author's Notes - Several things to point out.

1.) The first quote referring to shoes and feet and brains is from Dr. Seuss. I don't exactly know which book, but I know it's Seuss. The second one is from _Alice in Wonderland_, a book I think has become rather fanon amongst writers. I fell prey to it.

2.) The Tweedledee and Tweedledumb, while _Alice in Wonderland_ characters, are not references to the book. The first part was sung by Captain Kirk, the second by Mr. Spock in the episode 'Plato's Stepchildren'. One of the - if not _the_ - worst episodes in the history of Star Trek (in my less than humble opinion)

3.) The chair Spock is in also needs mentioning. I can't remember which episode it was, but the one where the guy impersonates Kirk and Spock pulls up a chair to try to decide which one is real while they fight... it's the chair used in the guard guy. (Can't remember the episode...)

4.) The Master is taken from two things. The first is that he is taking place of O'Brien in _1984_, and the second is from Dr. Who's arch-enemy whom Who defeats. Sadly... I liked the Master. Kinda like a Moriarty for Dr. Who.

5.) References to 'Operation: Annihilate!'

6.) Possible reference to 'Space Seed'

THIS FIC AND ALL IT'S REFERENCES ARE OFFICIALLY DISCLAIMED.

Self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Please read and review!

As if this A/N was not enough, I would like to address something from a review last chapter. A guest designated 'Rina', you said that you could not understand how anyone would find '1984' a good read and how it was uncomfortable for you and undeserving for a Trek character to be dropped in a dystopia formed from such a book. (Paraphrasing, if that is not what you meant I apologize). Personally, I found the book a good read not because of the evil it portrayed in a futuristic - at least in that time - scene, but because it is truthful. As you probably know, '1984' was written by a man in a Communist time as a way of, if not rebellion, to 'get the word out'. I am using Trek as yet another way of pushing on that message, as silly and weak as my reaching is. Communism is a disgusting, hateful, horrible act that so many countries follow on some scale or another. In writing this fic, I am not condoning it, but chastising it. I myself found '1984' sickening, but only the underlying moral and message of the story. The book itself is well written and the message _is_ phenomenal.

I hope that makes sense and I mean no offence. I pray that all countries, Communistic or not or slowly going down that path, right themselves soon. It can't be soon enough. I also thank you for the book recommendation, I will be certain to look it up.


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